Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy
by thedragonaunt
Summary: Sherlock is dead. Everybody knows that - except for the one person he trusted to help him pull off the elaborate hoax. But now she has to live with the aftermath of the Reichenbach Fall. When he went away, Sherlock took Molly's heart with him but left something even more precious behind. She has been keeping many secrets and telling lots of lies but, eventually, the truth will out.
1. Life After Death Chapter One

**This story is the beginning of my Sherlolly Saga. When I wrote the first part, Aftermath, all those years ago, little did I know that it would grow into the Saga it is today! Nor that I would be so fortunate as to have my stories read and appreciated by so many lovely people, who have given me nothing but encouragement and support. Thank you so much, dear readers. for that.**

 **Revising this Trilogy, and combining it into one novel-length story, has been a bit like watching my favourite old film and discovering that it was full of bloopers! I hope that, in the course of the revision, I have managed to correct all of them! And, for that, I must give sincere thanks to elbafo, whose sharp eyes have spotted all my Spags and plot holes, and who has advised me, unerringly, on what works and what doesn't. If you haven't read her work - especially '15 Minutes' and 'The Mutual Suicide Pact', to name but two - you really must! She is an amazing author.**

 **My thanks must also go to flavialikestodraw for the absolutely stunning cover image. Please check out her work, too, at flavialikestodraw DOT tumblr DOT** **com.**

 **Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **by**

 **thedragonaunt**

 **Part One - Aftermath**

Molly Hooper climbed the flight of stairs up to the second floor landing, turned right at the top and stopped outside the door to her flat. She fished around in the bottom of her copious work bag and eventually retrieved her set of keys then, sighing wearily, selected the correct key, jammed it into the key hole and turned it, pushing open the door and reaching, instinctively, for the light switch on the wall to her left. Letting the door swing closed behind her, she walked the few steps along the hallway and opened the door into her sitting room. It was only then that she realised her flat was empty.

It wasn't just that there were no lights on in any of the rooms, despite the fact that it had been dark outside now for at least two hours. The flat felt cold and lifeless – strangely similar to her latest client, the body she had PM'd that afternoon and, incidentally, the cause of her unusual degree of weariness. The body had been that of a child.

She crossed the sitting room in rapid strides, depositing her bag on the small sofa - switching on the table lamp and the floor lamp as she passed them - and pushed open the door to the guest bedroom. There was no one there, though there were visible signs of its earlier occupation – the unmade bed and a few items of clothing, thrown casually on the chair by the wall. Pulling the door to, she moved on to the next one – the door to her room. This room, too, was empty. She crossed the floor, turned on the bedside lamp and removed her jacket, dropping it on the bed. Retracing her steps into the sitting room, she turned into the short corridor that led past the kitchen to the bathroom. Both rooms were unoccupied. The growing feeling of unease had developed into full-blown anxiety. Where was he? And what on earth had possessed him to go out?

Her heart began to race so she leaned against the wall beside the kitchen door, closed her eyes and took three deep, slow breaths, to calm herself. The flat felt cold. It was well insulated and retained residual heat efficiently, so the heating had not been on for several of hours. He had clearly been gone for some time.

Molly ran through the options in her head. She could ring his mobile – no, he did not currently have a mobile. He had left that on the roof, as further proof of the finality of his actions. She could go out and look for him – no, because she had absolutely no idea where he could be. She could call his brother – NO. That would have to be the absolute last resort. If his brother knew he had gone out, he would be furious and it would only lead to further ill-feeling between the two siblings, whose relationship was already strained to breaking point.

Pushing down the rising feeling of panic and despair, she rolled off the wall and went into the kitchen. A cup of tea may not solve the problem but it would certainly help. While she waited for the kettle to boil, she walked to the kitchen window, which over-looked the street, hoping to see him walking along the pavement but the street light, opposite, illuminated nothing but a passing cyclist – who was definitely not him. She could not imagine anything more anathema to her erstwhile house guest than pushing pedals on a bicycle. She almost smiled at the thought, despite her desperation. Just as the bubbling sound of the kettle rose to a crescendo, the doorbell rang.

Molly raced back through the flat, grabbed the door handle and wrenched the door open. Sherlock stood on the threshold, coat collar turned up, shoulders hunched, hands pushed deep into his pockets, almost hugging himself. She was about to cry out, 'Where have you been?' - more in relief than anything - but the grim expression on his face pulled her up short and she simply stepped back, opening the door wide to admit him. He strode past her and walked into the sitting room, throwing himself onto the sofa, to sit, huddled, in his coat.

'The kettle's just boiled', she said, brightly, instead of all the things she really wanted to say, such as 'What if you'd been seen?'

Molly walked back to the kitchen and set out a second mug, to make tea. She returned, carrying both mugs, placed one on the coffee table in front of him and sat down in the single armchair, cradling her own hot beverage in her hands.

Her relief at seeing him safely back in the flat had reduced her anxiety only marginally. During the month he had been staying with her, his demeanour had become increasingly morose, as the dire nature of his situation grew more and more obvious. He was, after all, officially dead. He was also completely disgraced, his reputation in tatters, branded a criminal and a fraud, even suspected of the serious crimes of kidnap and possibly even murder.

All his friends – bar one – believed he had killed himself by jumping off the roof of St. Bartholomew's hospital. He had even arranged for his closest friend to be the star witness to his suicide and this was the most painful aspect of the whole sorry situation. He had used John's friendship to put the final stamp of authenticity on his carefully crafted deception. John believed he was dead, therefore the world believed he must be.

'Mycroft called'.

The sound of his voice was so sudden and unexpected that Molly jumped, almost spilling her tea.

'Did he? He came here?' she asked.

'No, I mean he phoned. On the landline.'

'What did he want?'

'To tell me everything is arranged – diplomatic passport, visas, plane tickets - everything. He's sending a car for me, tomorrow morning, 7 o'clock.'

'Oh', she replied and sat motionless, as a thousand different emotions poured through her.

There was no denying that it had been difficult having him living here for the last month, not least because, to the outside world, she was mourning his sudden and dramatic death. She could see he was emotionally tormented, but he had erected a stone wall barrier which made it impossible to offer him any sort of comfort. Molly knew that being confined in this small flat, with nothing but brooding guilt and despair to occupy his mind, was a torture for Sherlock. And he didn't even have access to his violin, which could have offered some solace.

But the thought that, in just a few hours, he would disappear from her life, possibly for ever, was too awful to contemplate. She felt her heart rate rising and a tight band begin to squeeze her chest. She was about to burst into tears, so she jumped up and scurried into the kitchen, closing both intervening doors behind her.

Molly hung onto the ceramic rim of her Belfast sink and fought hard with her emotions, taking deep, shuddering breaths in an effort to regain control. After a few minutes, which seemed like an eternity, she felt calm enough to brazen it out. She scooped cold water from the tap onto her face, patted her skin dry with a tea towel and went back into the sitting room. Sherlock was still on the sofa, still wrapped in his coat, the tea on the table still untouched.

'I thought I would do spag bol for supper. What do you think?' Molly asked, as normally as she could.

He stood up and turned in her direction, fixing her with a forlorn stare.

'Not for me, thanks, Molly. I'm really not hungry. I'm going to pack and get an early night.' He even tried to smile which was more heart-rending than his stricken expression. 'Good night.'

He walked away, into the guest bedroom, closing the door.

Molly busied herself for the next couple of hours, preparing and cooking enough spaghetti bolognaise for both of them, in the vain hope that he might be tempted - by the rich aromas of garlic and frying onions - to change his mind but the door to his bedroom remained firmly closed and she ate alone at the small, round table in the kitchen. She washed up the dishes, put the leftovers into Tupperware containers and into the fridge, and wiped down the kitchen surfaces.

She was exhausted, from her tough day at work and the emotional rollercoaster she had been riding for the past month, so she opted for an early night too and, having changed into her cotton pyjamas and carried out her bedtime beauty regime in the bathroom, she walked through the flat, turning off all lights, checked that the front door was locked and bolted, and went to bed.

ooOoo

Molly didn't know how long she had been asleep, only that something had dragged her back so sharply to full consciousness that she was completely disorientated. Someone had touched her shoulder. She sat up, her eyes wide, and saw a dark shape standing right by her bed. Then her brain rebooted and she recognised him.

'Sherlock! What is it? What's the matter?' she gasped, still disconcerted by the sudden awakening.

'Molly, I'm afraid,' he gasped, in a voice wracked with pain and desperation, turning her skin icy cold and freezing her blood in her veins. Sherlock flopped down in the chair, against the wall, and put his head in his hands. Molly reached over and turned on the small bedside lamp, casting a dim illumination over the room. She couldn't speak, couldn't form a single coherent thought, could only gape, open mouthed, at the man in the chair.

He seemed to gain some measure of composure and sat upright, dragging his hands down his cheeks to let them rest on the arms of the chair. Exhaling a long, slow breath, he said,

'I went to the cemetery today – after Mycroft phoned.'

He paused for a long time but she knew he had more to say, so she sat very still, so as not to disrupt his chain of thought.

'I wanted to see my head stone…I don't know why,' he shrugged. 'But, when I got there, John was there - and Mrs Hudson.' He exhaled sharply. 'God, Mrs H. was a bit wobbly on her pins! I think she'd had her evening soother a bit early...'

Another pause.

'John was talking - to me. I couldn't hear what he was saying, I was too far away and, obviously, hiding in the bushes, but he touched my head stone and I could see he was crying… Then he sort of...stood to attention – like a kind of salute – and then he marched away.'

He paused yet again, watching the scene play out in his head.

'I felt so bad!' he groaned, curling in upon himself. 'I wanted to run over, to shout, _John, it's OK! I'm alive!_ ''

He leaned back, his head against the bedroom wall, and closed his eyes, then dropped his head forward again, into his hands. 'But I couldn't because – if I had – it would all have been for nothing and…'

He stopped, abruptly, because they both knew what came next. After a few more moments, he sat up again. 'So I really am dead. My old life is over. Moriarty's won, he has won. He has burned the heart out of me. Tomorrow I start my new life – my non-life. I'm cast out, into exile, and no one will wonder or care where I am or what I'm doing because all my friends think I'm dead…'

'I'll care!' She spoke with such force and vehemence that it startled him - she even surprised herself. Sitting up in bed, her back against the headboard and the duvet across her lap, in a rush of pent up emotion, with unshed tears glistening in her eyes, she blurted out,

'There will not be one single moment of any single day that I won't wonder where you are or what you are doing, that I won't hope and pray that you are safe and, maybe, even happy. And I will miss you so much…SO much!'

The blast of her outburst hit Sherlock like a shockwave. And it was as though his mind, after all the years of imposing a strict dominance over his physical being, suddenly shut down.

 _He stopped thinking_.

His body, held in submission for so long, burst free and he was overwhelmed by a rush of sensory overload. He stood up and, in one fluid motion, climbed onto the bed and, taking Molly in his arms, pulled her down with him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his hair. The world contracted to a small bubble of space and time, which contained just him and her, beyond which, there was nothing.

Breathing in her scent – her hair, her soap, her natural body odours - he felt an urgent need to touch her bare skin and his hands fumbled under the hem of her tee-shirt and slid up her ribs to rest on her shoulder blades. He turned his head to find her mouth and devoured her. She threaded her fingers into his hair, caught his bottom lip between her teeth. His face was smooth and soft, with the slightest hint of 5 o'clock shadow on his top lip, and he smelt of aftershave and wood smoke.

Scrambling to his knees, on the bed, Sherlock rocked back onto his heels as she curled her legs underneath her, kneeling too. He eased his lips away from hers and stared into her eyes. Her pupils had exploded - there was barely any iris visible around those bottomless, black pools. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips, which he had described, so cruelly in the past as too small, were plump and voluptuous, engorged with blood. Her glossy chestnut hair, usually restrained in a plait or a pony tail, fell loose and fanned out across her shoulders and down her back, a dark, lustrous frame for the porcelain perfection of her face and neck.

Molly met his gaze with a fiercely passionate glare and, leaning forward, pushed him back on the bed and threw herself on top of him. Now she was kissing him, sliding her mouth along his jaw and down the side of his neck, to the hollow alongside his clavicle. She pushed herself upright and straddled his hips. Crossing her arms, she grasped the hem of her tee shirt, pulled it over her head and flung it away.

Sherlock watched, in a trance, as she grasped both his wrists and placed his hands on her breasts, meeting his eyes with a challenging gaze, daring him to respond. Her nipples were hard and erect and, as he brushed them with his thumbs, she moaned and arched her back, pressing her pelvis into his. She slid her hands down his arms and peeled his dressing gown off his shoulders. Without conscious thought, he rolled his shoulders, shrugging out of the sleeves.

Peeling off his tee shirt, Sherlock dropped it to the floor. In the same movement, he caught her around the waist and pulled her down on top of him, pressing their bare flesh together. With one hand splayed across her back, he twisted the fingers of his other hand into her hair, pressing his mouth to hers. Both her hands were tangled in his hair, she returning the pressure of his lips, pushing her tongue against his.

Driven by savage impulse, unfiltered by conscious thought, he rolled both their bodies over and covered hers with his. Bracing one elbow on the bed, he reached down and, looping the thumb of his free hand in the waist band of her PJ bottoms, dragging them down to her knees. She kicked her legs to finish the job and, at the same time, caught the waist band of his PJ's and rolled them down over his buttocks. He pushed them past his knees, kicking them free, too.

Lost in the rapture of their mutual sensuality, living only in the moment, they explored each other's bodies with fingers, lips and tongues. Though time passed, they were oblivious to it. Sherlock's whole body pulsating, he was increasingly aware of the heat, emanating from his groin, spreading outwards, engulfing his entire being. He was on fire.

Pushing up on his elbow, he ran his hand up her leg, slipped it under her thigh and hitched her leg up, over his hip. He was fully aroused now and the pressure of her pubis, pushing against him, threatened to undo him. Molly hooked her heels around his thighs, opening up to him, urging him to enter. He needed no further encouragement. As he breached her, she uttered a low moan then a gasp. Crossing her ankles over his buttocks, Molly locked them together.

Sherlock braced his weight on his forearms, grasped her wrists and pinned her arms above her head. They moved rhythmically, in unison. He dropped his forehead onto the mattress, next hers and Molly turned to bite his neck. She held him in a vicelike grip, as the pace of their mutual movement increased. They were breathless now and, with every thrust, she emitted a gruff, feral groan which he found unimaginably arousing. Both approaching the climax of their passion, he focused all his awareness on the point of conjunction. His world exploded in a burst of pure, visceral ecstasy. Her muscles rippled and contracted in waves and she arched her spine and screamed his name.

His passion spent, Sherlock collapsed on top of Molly, and they lay, spent and sated, their hearts racing. But, gradually, their breathing eased and the heat began to dissipate from their bodies. At last, he felt her vice-like grip relax and he gently eased off her, rolling over on his side. He pulled her to him, desperate not to lose the closeness of their bodies. She turned with him, draping a leg over his hip and reaching a hand to smooth the sweat-damp hair back from his forehead.

Face to face, a scant inch apart, they gazed intently into one another's eyes then Sherlock kissed her, gently, and a huge rush of tenderness over-powered him, towards this woman, whom he had held, determinedly, at arm's length for the last five years. He knew from the very beginning of their acquaintance that she had strong feelings for him but, long before, he had decided never to entertain such thoughts himself. Her fixation was a threat to the integrity of his sense of self, so he had rebuffed her and wilfully misinterpreted her vain attempts at flirting, whilst taking full advantage of her emotional attachment to manipulate her, when it suited him to do so.

Yet, to whom had he turned for assistance in his darkest hour? Who had given him unconditional support, facilitated the elaborate hoax that had saved the lives of his three closest friends, risked her own professional reputation and future career by forging his death certificate, sheltered him in her home, whilst he brooded and wallowed in self-pity and despair?

He looked into those warm, brown eyes and, perhaps for the first time in his entire life, Sherlock truly understood the concept of love. Tomorrow, he would leave behind everything he held dear, everything that represented for him security and certainty but, for this one night, Molly had given him respite from all his demons and she had done it in the full knowledge that, after this night, she might never see him again. He hugged her to him, breathed in her musky, post-coital scent, felt the contours of her body mould to his and, for this brief moment, he felt at peace.

ooOoo

Molly's internal clock registered that it was morning and time to wake up. She opened her eyes and blinked at the light from the bedside lamp. She was puzzled, for a moment, as to why she had fallen asleep with the light on then she became aware of the body that draped its limbs across her and breathed gently against the back of her neck. Her memories of the night before flooded back.

She took his hand and plaited her fingers with his, then drew both hands, together, to her chest and pressed her body against him, closing her eyes to savour the warmth and comfort of his embrace. The change in his breathing rate and the increased muscle tone of his limbs told her that he, too, had awoken but he didn't pull away. Instead, he drew her closer and seemed to savour the closeness, too. She wriggled round towards him, releasing her hold on his hand to push the bed hair out of his eyes, pressing a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth.

But they both knew the moment could not last.

'It's twenty past six, Sherlock,' Molly whispered. 'The car will be here in 40 minutes.' He closed his eyes and touched his forehead to hers, in acknowledgement of the truth of her statement. 'I'll put the kettle on,' she said and, rolling away from him, slid out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown and left the room.

She stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, hugging her dressing gown round her and feeling desolate. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sherlock flit past the kitchen door, dressed in his now familiar blue dressing gown, en route to the bathroom. As she listened to the muffled sounds of his morning ablutions, silent tears slid down her face and dripped onto her sleeves. The tight knot in the centre of her chest was making it difficult to breathe.

She heard the shower switch off and, moments later, he came out of the bathroom and passed the door again, wrapped in a big white towel. Molly made two mugs of tea and carried them into the sitting room, placing one on the coffee table and taking the other with her, to the window, to look down on the street below, still illuminated by the single street lamp, opposite. Standing there, warming her hands on the hot mug, she saw a sleek, black car slide to a halt, outside her building. She looked at her watch. It was only ten to seven.

 _Too early! Don't take him yet!_

A few moments passed and her doorbell rang.

Molly opened her front door to two men, one tall and slim, carrying an umbrella, the other broad and muscular – who may as well have had the words 'body guard' stamped across his forehead.

'Good morning, Miss Hooper. I do hope I'm not too early.'

She stepped aside, tacitly inviting them in. Mycroft Holmes stalked to the centre of her small sitting room and gave it a quick, critical scan. The 'heavy' stood just inside the door, hands clasped behind his back.

'Please sit down, Mycroft,' said Molly, glad that her weeping fit had died at the sight of the black car. 'Sherlock won't be long, I'm sure,'

'Thank you, but I must decline,' Mycroft smiled, deprecatingly, inclining his head to her. 'I won't be staying long,'

The door to the guest bedroom opened and Sherlock emerged, dressed in his dark suit, blue scarf and black coat, carrying the small leather valise which held the few possessions which Mycroft had managed to retrieve for him, from 221b Baker Street, without arousing John Watson's suspicions. At a nod from Mycroft, the heavy stepped forward and held out a hand for the bag. Sherlock passed it over then looked, pointedly, at his wrist watch, which said five to seven, and sat down on the sofa, picking up the mug of tea that Molly had placed there for him. Sitting back, he began to sip it, without a word or a glance in his brother's direction.

'Well,' said Mycroft, 'shall I leave you to say your goodbyes, Sherlock?'

Turning to Molly, the British Government made a slight bow and intoned, in a voice that oozed condescension,

'Thank you, Miss Hooper, for all the assistance you have given my brother, and for your hospitality. He could have stayed with me, of course, but I can see why he would prefer the delights of _your_ company. Goodbye, dear lady.' And he walked from the flat, leaving Molly in no doubt that he knew all about hers and Sherlock's nocturnal triste.

No sooner had Mycroft and his lackey vacated the little flat than Sherlock jumped to his feet, abandoned his tea and came over to Molly, enfolding her in his arms. They hugged tightly but neither spoke, for a long, long moment that was nowhere near long enough, then he eased his grip on her, pressed a fierce kiss to the top of her head, turned away and was gone. Molly stood in the middle of the room - abandoned, bereft - as sobs began to bubble up from that great knot around her heart, then she toppled into the armchair and let her grief overwhelm her.

ooOoo

10


	2. Life After Death Chapter Two

**Life After Death – A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Two - Consequences**

 **Chapter One**

Molly sat on the side of her bath and stared at the object in her hand. She had read the instructions very carefully, but she checked them again.

One stripe – negative; two stripes – positive.

There were definitely two stripes.

She wasn't surprised. This was just confirmation. She would do a more scientific test at work, tomorrow, to confirm even more positively, but she had known already. She was as regular as clockwork in her monthly cycle – twenty eight days, spot on. It was six weeks since Sherlock left and she had just missed her second deadline. She was six weeks pregnant.

She was not entirely sure, yet, how she felt about that. Her most dominant feeling, at this moment, was wonder. She was struck by the awesome concept that she knew something that no one else in the _whole world_ knew – she was pregnant with Sherlock Holmes's baby.

The day he left, she had been utterly devastated. She could not stop crying, not even long enough to phone in sick to work. She was forced to email her boss, apologising for the short notice and pleading a sore throat and lost voice, for want of a better excuse for not phoning. She had sat in the armchair, leaking hot, salt tears. Every time she thought she could not cry anymore, she cried some more.

After several hours of convulsive sobbing, she felt weak, tremulous and completely drained. Her eyes were sore, her ribs ached and her cheeks burned. She tottered to the bathroom to splash cold water on her stinging face, bending over the basin and scooping the cooling liquid straight from the running tap. She held the hand towel to her eyes, to blot them dry, and looked at her ruined face in the bathroom mirror.

It was then that she saw it, hanging on the back of the bathroom door - Sherlock's blue dressing gown. He had forgotten it. He had left it behind. She stumbled across the room, gathered the fabric in her hands and inhaled the achingly familiar scent of his aftershave. Lifting the garment off the hook, she hugged it to her and sank down on the floor behind the door, beside herself once again.

For the next two days, Molly sat in her flat, her heart aching, barely able to move off the sofa. On the third day, she forced herself to go into the guest bedroom to strip the bed that Sherlock had occupied, during his stay. On opening the door, she was surprised to find that he had stripped it himself, folded the duvet and left it and the pillows in a neat pile at the bottom of the bed. The used linen and his towel were stuffed into one of the pillow cases and left on the floor.

Had he known how hard she would find this task of removing his presence from her home?

Looking around the room, there was no physical evidence that he had ever been there – apart from his blue dressing gown, which she was now wearing, over her own. She was struck by the finality of the scene and it dawned on her that this was, indeed, like a death and she was in mourning. He was never coming back – and even if he did, it could never be the same again. They had shared a unique moment in time but that was all it was – just a moment.

Strangely, this realisation helped Molly to get back on track. She knew she couldn't spend the rest of her life pining for him. She had a bath, got dressed and spent the day cleaning the flat. She cleaned his room and washed his bedding. She took his dressing gown, folded it neatly into a plastic bag and put it in the back of her wardrobe. It would be there for him, if he ever came back to claim it.

On the fourth day, she went back to work. It was not hard to convince people she had been ill. She was pale and thin. Some of her colleagues were concerned she had come back too soon but she thanked them for their consideration and buried herself in her work.

When she missed her first period, she didn't think much about it. She had lost quite a bit of weight and she knew that a low BMI could cause one's periods to stop. At that point, it never occurred to her that she might be pregnant. But four weeks later, when her second period failed to put in an appearance, the idea suddenly struck her.

When she thought about it, she realised there were other tell-tale signs – her breasts were a little swollen and tingly, though not exactly painful, and she had started to feel a little nauseous when she smelt certain aromas, notably coffee, tea and anything frying. She loved tea and could drink about ten cups a day, given the chance, but she found she could not face the thought of it, let alone the taste. This was the conclusive piece of evidence and the thing that prompted Molly to buy the predictor kit and take the test.

Confirmation of her new status of mother-to-be focused Molly's mind and galvanised her into action. Walking from the bathroom to the sitting room, via the kitchen fridge, to pour a large glass of milk - the only beverage she could tolerate, at the moment - she sat in the armchair and began to make a list, a plan of action.

She would make an appointment to see her GP and get registered with an obstetrician. She would tell her boss that she wanted to stay in work as far into the pregnancy as possible, so that she could take maximum maternity leave, after the birth. She would not tell anyone about the baby until after her twelve week scan, just in case anything happened in the meantime. She was fully aware that about twenty percent of all pregnancies spontaneously aborted because the embryos were nonviable, often before the host mothers even knew they were carrying, so there was no point in telling anybody, yet.

Molly was a scientist. She knew that a foetus was the most efficient kind of parasite. Having taken up residence in the womb of its host and plugged itself in, via the placenta and umbilical cord, it would set about making changes to the mother's physiology to maximise its own comfort and meet its own needs. This was not a symbiotic relationship. The baby took and the mother gave.

She was aware that all the hormonal changes going on inside her body were triggered by the embryo sending chemical messages to her pituitary gland. As a woman of science, Molly marvelled at the efficiency with which this tiny creature had taken control. She was going to make the most of this experience, the whole process of procreation, on both an emotional and an intellectual level. She surprised herself when she realised that her approach to this situation was not unlike how Sherlock might have approached it, had the roles been reversed. They were not dissimilar at all.

Next day, Molly went to see her boss. He listened to what she had to say and responded in a very professional way. He advised her that HR would do a risk assessment, if she intended to continue working up to the last possible moment, since there were some duties in a Pathology lab which might be potentially harmful to the foetus and she would have to change her working practices, appropriately.

He respected her wish for confidentiality and assured her that no one would hear anything from him. At the end of the interview, after going over all the practicalities, he stood up, leaned forward, putting his hand on hers and smiled broadly.

'Congratulations, Molly', he said, warmly, and she smiled, too, probably for the first time in weeks, as she realised that she was very excited.

ooOoo


	3. Life After Death Chapter Three

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Two - Consequences**

 **Chapter Two**

Molly soon found that she might have to spill the beans a little earlier than expected, when her aversion to certain smells developed into nausea emesis gravidarum, an extreme form of 'morning sickness', round about the eighth week of her pregnancy.

Whilst riding home on the bus from a late shift, someone got on with a hamburger in a plastic carton and sat just in front of her. She was so over-come with the urge to puke, she had to ring the bell and get off the bus at the next stop, where she proceeded to hurl chunks into the gutter. People walking by gave her a wide berth and she knew they probably thought she was drunk. She so wanted to proclaim to the world that she was NOT drunk but PREGNANT but she knew what these people thought of her didn't really matter. She would never see any of them again.

She had never been squeamish about cutting up cadavers but she found herself having to rush to the 'Ladies' at the slightest whiff of bodily odours and, on a couple of occasions, she came over faint and had to sit with her head between her knees until the colour returned to her cheeks. Her colleagues could not fail to notice these uncharacteristic episodes. Rumours would soon start to circulate, no doubt.

ooOoo

One lunchtime, towards the end of her ninth week of gestation, Molly spotted Maria, the medical photographer, sitting by herself in the staff canteen, and she decided it was time to put another part of her master plan into action.

'Do you mind if I join you?' she asked. Maria was a colleague but not really a friend, so Molly waited to be invited in.

'Of course not,' Maria smiled.

Molly sat down, took a deep breath and launched into her mission statement.

'Maria, I have something to tell you. I want you to know that I'm pregnant.'

Maria's mouth fell open then she broke into a broad smile.

'I knew it!' she exclaimed. 'Wow, Molly, that explains everything. Oh, my goodness! How wonderful! But I didn't even know you were with someone. Who's the lucky guy?'

Fortunately, Molly had anticipated this enquiry.

'I'm not with anyone, actually. I…'

But before Molly could complete her prepared explanation, Maria exclaimed again,

'Oh my God, you've had A. I. Wow, Molly, how marvellous! You know, I've thought about doing that so many times. I mean, none of us are getting any younger, are we? And sitting around waiting for Mr Right doesn't seem to be working. Gosh, you are so brave!'

Molly was about to correct her over-enthusiastic confidante when it suddenly occurred to her that this was the perfect cover story. Why hadn't she thought of it herself? She changed tack, accepted Maria's compliments on her 'out there-ness' and delivered her second revelation.

'Maria, I need to ask a big favour. I would really like you to be my birth partner.'

This actually did render the loquacious lady speechless - for at least two seconds.

'Oh, Molly, me? Are you sure? I mean, of course, I'd be honoured but, are you sure there's no one else you'd rather, like your sister, maybe? Have you got a sister?'

'Yes, Maria, I do have a sister but I really would like you to do it, for a very important reason.'

Molly paused to rally her resolve, then said,

'You are a medical photographer. You have photographed heart transplants, conjoined twin separations, all manner of medical procedures. I would really like you to film the birth.'

Again, Molly had flummoxed her companion.

'I want a permanent record of the delivery, something tangible that I can keep, maybe show my child one day, when it's old enough.'

Maria sat dumb-founded for a further two heart beats then almost leapt out of her chair.

'Wow, Molly, I would be thrilled to film your baby's birth, I would be honoured and delighted! In fact,' she said, her professional mind jumping into gear, 'I would love to document the whole pregnancy. You know, take photographs of you through every stage, so you would have a complete account of the whole thing.'

This was more than Molly could have dreamed of and she was thrilled with the idea.

'Oh, Maria, thank you so much! I knew you were the right person to ask. But if we're going to record the whole thing, I have an appointment coming up that I need you to attend with me.'

Maria was all ears.

Next week, I have my twelve week scan.'

Although Molly knew the exact date she conceived, protocol dictated that the pregnancy be dated from the first day of her last period so, officially, she was eleven weeks gone.

The two women spent the rest of their lunch break discussing various ideas and options for the 'magnum opus' that would be the story of Molly's pregnancy. When they stood up, to return to work, Molly reminded Maria that no one else knew yet and that's how it must remain until she felt it was the right time to tell the others. Maria mimed pulling a zip across her lips and winked at Molly. Another step in the plan of action had been achieved.

A week later, when Molly went for her first scan, Maria came too and videoed the whole process. The radiographer assumed they were a lesbian couple and treated Maria like the expectant father, which had her and Molly in fits of giggles for days afterwards.

The scan confirmed that everything was absolutely fine and the baby was developing normally. At the appropriate moment, the radiographer asked,

'Would you like to know your baby's sex, ladies?'

'No!' Molly exclaimed causing the other two women to stare at her.

'No,' she said, more levelly. 'I want it to be a surprise.'

She already had a mental image of her baby as a boy, for no good reason she could think of, but she really did not care which sex it was.

Maria squeezed her hand, warmly.

'That's lovely,' the radiographer beamed. 'I always think it's a shame that people know in advance. It spoils the surprise. But I suppose I'm a bit old-fashioned.'

ooOoo

Armed with the print-out from her scan, the following Saturday, Molly caught the train to Northampton. She needed to tell her mother that she was about to be a grandmother, and it had to be done face to face. She was a little apprehensive about how her mother might take the news but she knew it was just a matter of time before it became obvious to everyone, and she must break it to her family first.

Molly had been a daddy's girl, growing up. She shared a love of scientific inquiry with her dad and they had gone off to science fairs and museums and the like, most weekends, when he was alive. She was not that close to her mother, who had favoured her sister, she being more of a girlie girl than Molly. Her mother's reaction was pretty much as expected.

'Molly, I should have thought you would know better than to get yourself pregnant.'

'Mum, it is a physical impossibility to get your SELF pregnant. There has to be some outside agent involved,' Molly countered.

'Don't you get smart with me, my girl!' her mother snapped. 'You're supposed to be educated. What was the point of sending you to university? You might as well have gone to work in a shop. You're no better than these young girls round here, who think the world owes them a council flat and a load of benefits.'

'God, mother, don't be such a Daily Mail reader!' Molly retorted. 'Yes, I went to university and got well qualified so I could get a good job. And I have! I am well paid, I have my own flat. I still have these things, whether I'm pregnant or not.'

'And what about the father?' her mother snapped back. 'What does he have to say about it? And where is he? Why isn't he here? Is he too ashamed to show his face?'

Molly closed her eyes and gritted her teeth.

'The baby's father and I are not together,' she replied. 'He lives abroad.'

'Oh, my god! He's a foreigner!' exclaimed Mrs Hooper. 'Came over here, got you pregnant and then buggered off home! What colour is this baby going to be?'

'Mother,' Molly said, quietly and calmly, 'the baby's father is not a foreigner - not that that would matter, anyway. He's English. And he had to go abroad for his work. He didn't want to go and would much rather have stayed here, but he had no choice in the matter. And though – again - it really does not matter, he is white. So, unless there are any recessive genes on our side of the family that we don't know about, this baby will be white, too. And, anyway, Mum, I'm not a teenager, I'm thirty-one. By the time you were my age, you had two children already.'

'Yes, but I was married. That's the difference,' her mother replied, tartly.

'Well, lucky you. Some of us are not so fortunate.'

Travelling back on the train, that evening, having declined the invitation to stay over because she could not stand the recriminatory looks from her parent, Molly felt rather weepy. This was not surprising. She knew it was, partly, due to the hormonal effects of the pregnancy but crying in public was not something she wished to embrace, so she went to the toilet for a bit of a blub and felt much better afterwards.

ooOoo

As the weeks went by, Molly made further preparations for the arrival of her baby. She didn't want to get too carried away, buying baby things, since there was always the chance that something might go wrong and she would be left with a load of baby stuff to mock her, but she started looking in charity shops for second-hand cots and clothes, reasoning that they didn't cost much, so she could always re-donate them, if things didn't work out.

She made a point of reading anything and everything she could get her hands on about foetal development, child birth and child development. She spent hours in the hospital library and on the Internet, reading all the latest research papers on the subject.

At home, in the evenings, Molly spent her time getting to know her unborn child.

She noted that Junior was most active in the evenings, especially if Molly took a bath. She had read that vision was one of the first senses to develop in the foetus and that the baby would be able to detect light, diffusing through her stomach wall when she was naked, so she often lay in the bath for up to an hour, giving her baby maximum light exposure. After her bath, she would sit in her armchair, listening to music and talking to the 'little parasite'. Mozart seemed to sooth the baby whereas Beethoven made it leap about and turn somersaults, swimming around in its private pool of amniotic fluid.

Molly often talked to him - or her - about Sherlock, about what a brave and clever man he was, how he had sacrificed everything to save his friends and keep them safe, how much he would love to meet his baby, some day. She wasn't sure how true the last bit was but she reasoned that any man would want to meet his child so why should Sherlock be any different?

Molly had not thought of any names for her baby, partly because of her superstition about tempting Fate, but mainly because she intended, once the baby was born, to tell Mycroft that he was an uncle and to ask if there were any family names that it might be appropriate for the baby to be given. She felt that this was the closest she could get to giving Sherlock a hand in the naming of his child.

Thinking about Sherlock made Molly sad. She wondered where he was, what he was doing and how much danger he was in. Was he lonely? Was he hurt? Did he ever think of her? She knew he was determined to destroy every last vestige of Moriarty's organisation, in order to remove the 'fatwas' that the insane master criminal had put on the heads of his friends. She also knew that, until he achieved this – if he ever did – he would remain 'dead' to the world. This thought made her want to cry but a miserable mother usually made for a miserable baby so she pulled herself together and got on with her life.

ooOoo


	4. Life After Death Chapter Four

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Two - Consequences**

 **Chapter Three**

Molly had not seen or heard from Mycroft since the day Sherlock went away, nor did she expect to, but neither had she spoken to John Watson or Mrs Hudson since the funeral. However, one afternoon, towards the end of her second trimester, she was coming down in the lift from the path lab when it stopped at the floor below, the door opened and John Watson stepped in.

'Molly!' he declared. 'What a lovely surprise! And, wow, look at you! I had no idea!'

He clasped her by the shoulders and gave her a warm peck on both cheeks. 'When's the baby due? And who's the daddy?'

Molly cleverly side-stepped the second half of this question by launching into a very technical account of the current status of her pregnancy then said,

'What about you, John? How are things with you…now?'

Dropping his gaze, momentarily, in acknowledgement of the inferred reference to Sherlock's tragic demise, John Watson grinned broadly and explained that he just dropped in to see Mike Stanford because he had some news of his own.

'I've met someone, Molly. We're getting engaged. I just came by to invite Stamford to the party, next Saturday. Please say you'll come, too? Mrs Hudson will be there and Greg Lestrade. Even Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson are coming. It will be nice to get the old crowd back together again. I haven't really seen any of them since….well, you know, since….Anyway, please come and bring along your partner. It will be great to meet him.'

Molly thanked him for the invitation and he gave her the address. It was not 221B Baker Street. John had moved out of there as soon as he could find an alternative. Too many memories, he admitted. They bid one another goodbye, outside the main door to St Bart's and Molly assured Dr Watson that she would come to the party, though afterwards, left to her own thoughts, she wondered how difficult it would be to keep up the pretence that Sherlock was dead, faced with all the people who knew him best – the very people, in fact, for whom he had made the great sacrifice of faking his own death and going into self-imposed exile. However, she really wanted to see the old faces again – even Donovan and Anderson, perhaps – so she decided she would go.

As it turned out, it was rather a pleasant social occasion. When Molly arrived, everyone greeted her warmly. They all expressed surprise and delight that she was expecting a happy event and, once everyone had exchanged pleasantries and introductions, she sat with Mrs Hudson for quite a while, talking about babies. Mrs H had no children of her own, which was probably why she had unofficially adopted Sherlock and John, but she had nieces and nephews and even great ones, too, so she had lots of baby anecdotes to share.

John's fiancée, Mary, seemed really nice and, seeing them together, it was obvious that they were truly in love. Molly was pleased that John had found someone who clearly made him happy. It must have helped him deal with the loss of his best friend.

Inevitably, the conversation came round to Sherlock. Unbeknown to Molly - and probably facilitated by Mycroft - Moriarty's deception had been exposed and the 'Rich Brook' revelations discredited. Lestrade had been reinstated as a DI and Sherlock's name had been cleared. _Why hadn't anyone thought to tell her?_ she wondered. But she had been so out of the loop for the last seven months. Sherlock was the glue that held this group of people together. Without him, they had drifted apart.

Of course, the revelations about Moriarty's guilt and Sherlock's innocence led them all to speculate as to why he had insisted it was all true and jumped off the roof, but it was agreed that he had been under a huge amount of stress at the time and, perhaps, he believed there was no other way out.

It was quite cathartic, talking about Sherlock. Even Donovan agreed, grudgingly, that he was good at what he did - Anderson abstained from commenting. John became rather pensive and took himself into the kitchen, which is where Molly found him, when she went to say goodbye.

'I'm a bit tired, John,' she explained. 'Carrying all this extra weight around really takes it out of you!'

'Well, I'm very grateful to you for coming, Molly. I really wanted everyone to meet Mary. I don't know where I would be now, without her,' John confided, looking close to tears.

Molly gave him a hug.

'You know, John, Sherlock would be pleased that you've found someone you want to spend the rest of your life with. And, let's face it, I don't think you could have made it this far in any relationship with him around. He was rather 'Death to Girlfriends', wasn't he?'

John had to laugh at that.

'God, you are so right, Molly. He could kill passion with a glance. Anyway, please keep in touch and let us know when that baby arrives. And, when we set a date for the wedding, you will definitely be on the VIP guest list.'

He stepped forward and hugged her close, just as the baby let loose with a might kick, which he felt, even through his and Molly's clothing.

'Good God, what have you got in there, a horse?' John exclaimed, laughing.

'It's either the Karate Kid or Johnny Wilkinson, I'm not sure which,' Molly replied. 'But I'll keep you posted!'

Molly took her leave, silently marvelling that no one had even asked about the father of her baby but she assumed Mike Stanford had probably filled them in on the 'A.I.' story and she said a heart-felt 'thank you' for Maria and her fertile imagination.

ooOoo


	5. Life After Death Chapter Five

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Two - Consequences**

 **Chapter Four**

At work, Molly's duties had changed considerably as the pregnancy progressed. Because of the risk of exposure to bodily fluids, and despite the very high levels of infection control practiced in the Pathology Department, HR had ruled that Molly should have more of a desk job. She mostly spent her time doing library and Internet research for other members of the team, which enabled her to carry out her own research, on anything baby-related. Very occasionally, she would be asked to double check some test results or findings of another team member, so long as bodily fluids were not involved.

Such was the case, one day towards the end of her thirty-sixth week, when she was asked to take a look at some non-biological trace evidence found at a murder scene. She had been standing at her bench, peering into the lenses of a microscope, at various prepared slides, for a couple of hours. She stood up straight and arched her spine, rubbing her lower back.

'You OK, Molly?' asked a colleague, working on the next bench.

'Yes, fine,' she smiled. 'I must have slept a bit awkwardly last night. I woke up this morning with awful back pain. I'll be OK.'

Half an hour later, she breathed a rather irritated sigh. At this late stage in her pregnancy, her womb and its occupant took up rather a lot of space inside her abdomen, so her bladder had been squashed, making it necessary to spend a penny rather frequently. She felt the need to go, now.

Taking full advantage of the more generous dimensions of the Disabled toilet, Molly pulled down her pants and eased herself onto the seat. Her mouth then formed a startled 'O' shape, when she glanced down and saw a red stain on the gusset of her pants.

'Oh, God!' she said, out loud, 'I'm spotting!'

She took a couple of deep breaths to calm herself, then took out her mobile and rang the number of her obstetrician. The clinic nurse answered on the fourth ring. Molly explained the situation.

'Do you have any other indications that you might be in labour?' the lady asked.

'Well, I have had lower back pain since I got up this morning and I've had rather more Braxton Hicks than usual,' she replied. 'But this is only my thirty-sixth week.'

'It's your thirty-eighth week, Dr Hooper,' the nurse corrected.

'Yes, yes, thirty-eighth week.'

In the heat of the moment, Molly had forgotten to make the adjustment between the 'official' date of conception – the first day of her last period– and what she knew to be the actual date - the night before Sherlock left - which was two weeks later.

'Well, you know, babies don't always go by the calendar. They come when they're ready and I think yours is!' the nurse replied.

'So what should I do next?' Molly asked, in full action mode, now. The nurse assured her that there was no need to rush. She advised her to time the intervals between her contractions and, when they got to fifteen minutes apart, come into hospital but, in the meantime, to just carry on as normal but not to do anything too strenuous.

'Bloody typical!' she thought, 'Two weeks early! Trust Sherlock's baby to set its own agenda.'

She clicked off the call and sent a text to Maria. It read:

 _Showtime!_

ooOoo

Maria arrived, breathless, about ten minutes later to find Molly sitting in her ergonomically designed computer chair, sipping a glass of water.

'Oh!' she said, a little disappointed. 'I thought you'd be rolling around on the floor, yelling 'The baby's coming! The baby's coming!' Not sitting there, like you're waiting for a bus.'

'Only in the movies, Maria. Real life is not nearly so dramatic.'

Molly told Maria what the nurse had advised.

'The thing is, I don't have my hospital bag here.'

She had packed her hospital bag weeks ago and it was sitting just inside the door to her flat, ready to be grabbed at a moment's notice.

'If I give you my keys, could you please go and fetch it for me?'

'Yes, but you must promise me you won't have that baby before I get back', Maria replied.

'Girl Guide's honour', Molly assured her.

By the time Maria returned, things had progressed. The contractions were now twenty minutes apart and getting a bit more uncomfortable. Molly had moved to the staff lounge and was standing by the sink unit, bending over the counter top and practicing her breathing. She felt remarkably calm. Her anti-natal classes were proving their worth, as she recognised each new sensation as it occurred. Maria was just about to settle herself on the sofa when Molly gave a sudden gasp, and looked down at the floor, at a small pool of liquid that was spreading round her feet.

'Bloody hell, my waters have broken,' she declared.

That was the cue for Action Stations. Molly knew, once the waters broke, labour would normally progress apace, so it was time to go. Maria called a taxi, gathered up her camera bag and Molly's case and they were on their way.

ooOoo

The next few hours went by in a blur.

Molly was admitted to the labour ward, examined and advised that her cervix was five centimetres dilated. Her labour was well progressed. She was prepped and changed into a hospital gown and advised to stay on the bed. But her body was telling her to pace - so she paced, up and down the room, and round and round the bed, stopping - with gradually increasing frequency - to rest her hands on the foot bar of the bed and bend forward, riding out each contraction, as it came and went.

Maria got her cameras ready and started to film.

As the contractions became more frequent and more intense, Molly's consciousness moved onto a different plain. She was barely aware of anything going on around her. At varying intervals, a midwife came in, examined her and gave a progress report but she hardly took any of it in. She was entirely in tune with the physiological changes going on inside her own body and she responded instinctively to these changes.

From time to time, she would mumble encouraging words to herself and to the baby, in a private dialogue between herself and her unborn child. Four hours in, she was moved from the Progress Suite to the Birthing Suite and things began in earnest. She still wanted to pace but the midwife was insistent that she lay on the bed, so she had to find the position that felt right to her. This turned out to be on her side, with two pillows between her knees.

Molly had made a commitment, early in her pregnancy, to have a natural birth. This was not as common now as in previous eras but she had read that babies born in drug-free labour were more alert and fed better in the first few days post-partum and, given Sherlock's history of drug abuse, she didn't want to risk any potential propensity that might be genetically inherent in her child by exposure to awareness-altering drugs, even at this early stage in its life. So, in compliance with her wishes, she was given just the gas and air, to help manage the pain.

Time ticked by.

The contractions were becoming much stronger now and Molly felt an irresistible urge to bear down hard but the midwife instructed her to resist these urges and to pant, because she wasn't quite fully dilated. Acting on an impulse, Molly rolled onto her elbows and knees, with her bottom in the air, which seemed to slow things down a little and give her cervix the time it needed to complete its dilation.

All the while, Maria was doing a very professional job of recording the event. As a highly regarded medical photographer, she was well accustomed to working in this type of environment, getting perfect shots from optimum vantage points whilst keeping well out of the way of the health care professionals, so as not to impede them in their work.

Molly was beginning to get agitated. She wanted so much to push but the midwife was still saying it wasn't time until, at long last, the woman said,

'OK, Molly. Next contraction, I want you to push.'

Molly hooked her hands behind her knees and, when it felt right, she took a deep breath, tucked her chin to her chest and pushed as hard and as long as she could. She tried not to make any vocal sounds, as she'd read that this was wasted breath and reduced the efficiency of the bearing down. Molly was a scientist and she was applying her knowledge to the task in hand. This was the business end of the process and the time when one learned that it was not called labour for nothing.

In the short breaks between pushing, Molly lay on her side with her eyes closed, crooning to herself, taking sips through a straw from a glass of iced water held by a nurse, marshalling her strength for the next onslaught. She lost count of the number of times she bore down but she was becoming very tired and beginning to see red flashes in her vision, which she knew were warning signs of raised blood pressure. She began to feel she couldn't take much more of the straining. She had no energy left. She had used up every ounce.

Then she heard the midwife say,

'Next time, Molly, we need a big push! Baby's nearly here.'

'I can't, she whispered, 'I can't do this any more.'

'Yes, you can! You've done brilliantly this far. You're nearly there, Molly, just a couple more pushes and we're there!'

Molly felt the next contraction begin to build, felt the pain engulfing her. She braced herself for one more push and began to bear down…

'Molly, pant, now! Pant!' The midwife spoke urgently.

Molly converted the push into panting and she felt the pressure in her pelvis suddenly reduce.

'The head is out, Molly, your baby's head is born. One more push and you'll have your baby!'

Molly could feel the next contraction coming and she rallied one final time. It was almost instantaneous. She began to bear down and she felt the baby slip from her like a fish over a weir…

'It's a boy, Molly. You have a beautiful baby boy!'

Molly heard him cry out, just once, and then go quiet.

'Let me see him…please…give him to me….' she gasped, as she rolled onto her back and held out her arms. The midwife scooped the baby up from between Molly's knees and placed him, face down on her chest, naked and bloodied and slippery as an eel, with a damp shock of thick black hair, plastered to his scalp. Molly placed her hands on him and looked into his wide open eyes. They were almond shaped and sea-green.

They were Sherlock's eyes.

ooOoo


	6. Life After Death - Chapter Six

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Two - Consequences**

 **Chapter Five**

Next morning, after spending the night in the crèche, so that Molly could rest, Baby Hooper, as his i.d. bands stated, was brought back to his mother. He had been weighed and measured, bathed and dressed and placed in a little plastic crib on wheels. He had been given glucose and water but nothing more, so he was ready for his first feed. The specialist nurse guided Molly through her first breast feed, the burping and the nappy changing, and then left her and her baby alone together.

The new mother sat in the nursing chair, next to her bed, cradling her son in her arms and gazing in awe at his delicate features. Could this be real? It hardly seemed possible that, from the frantic need of that desperate night, all those months ago, she and Sherlock had made this exquisite being. Yet here he was, this miracle baby, this gift from nature, her serendipity.

A light knock at the door roused her from her reverie. She looked up to see John Watson and Mary walking in, carrying a huge bouquet of flowers. Maria had performed her duties well, phoning around all the people on the list that Molly had prepared in advance, to advise each of them, as Molly had instructed. John came over and gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek, then stood beside her, gazing at the serene expression of the sleeping baby.

'Would you like to hold him, John?' Molly asked.

'Well, it's been awhile since I did any paediatrics so I suppose a bit of practice wouldn't go amiss,' John replied, with a grin. Molly passed the swaddled infant to him and he stood, rocking, with a huge smile on his face. Molly climbed back onto the bed and Mary took the chair.

'Have you thought what you might call him?' Mary asked.

'No, not yet. I have a few ideas but I want to think about it a bit more, decide what suits him best. I have six weeks to register him,' she replied.

They chatted about this and that, for around fifteen minutes, whilst first John and then Mary held the baby, then they popped him back in his crib and took their leave, so that Molly could rest. However, they had barely been gone five minutes when there was another, sharper knock at the door and it opened to admit a tall, thin gentleman, in a three piece suit, carrying a furled black umbrella.

Molly had been dozing but her eyes fluttered open as Mycroft Holmes walked toward the bed. He stopped about three feet away, glancing from Molly to the crib and back to Molly before he spoke.

'Miss Hooper, your messenger asked me to come here to see you this afternoon but, I must confess, my curiosity has gotten the better of me so, I regret, I am a little early. I trust this is not inconvenient.'

'Well, it could have been a bit awkward. John Watson has only just left,' Molly replied.

'And why might that have been awkward?' Mycroft enquired, fixing her with an intimidating glare.

Molly had thought long and hard about how she would like this conversation to go. She was glad that she had rehearsed it in her head. She could deliver her lines like the prepared speech it was.

'Mycroft, this is my baby. He's also Sherlock's baby. He's your nephew.'

ooOoo

Mycroft stood leaning on his umbrella, maintaining a bland facial expression, and did not speak. Molly took a breath and went on.

'I appreciate that you may require some proof that Sherlock is the father of this baby so I asked the nursing staff to get me a DNA collection kit, to take a sample of his saliva.'

Molly looked towards a sealed vacuum pack on top of her bedside cabinet.

'You can take the sample with you and arrange your own paternity test.'

Mycroft shifted his position, processing this information, then gave a brief nod.

'Thank you, Miss Hooper. I am impressed by your pragmatism. May I collect the sample now?'

'Be my guest,' Molly replied.

Mycroft's brow furrowed and, for a brief moment, he looked distinctly flustered, but recovered quickly.

'Miss Hooper, I would be grateful if you would ask one of the medical staff to _collect_ the sample and I will take it with me, now.'

Molly pressed the call button and, an awkward few minutes later, a member of staff came in. She explained to the nurse what was required and the lady obliged by, quickly and efficiently, collecting a sample of William's saliva and sealing it in the tube provided. The poor woman was in a bit of a quandary as to whom to give the tube but Mycroft held out his hand and Molly nodded, so she gave it to him and excused herself from the room.

Mycroft looked at the tube in his hand, then over at the still-sleeping babe, and back to Molly then bowed his head, smiled thinly, turned and left. Molly relaxed back on her pillows, relieved that the ordeal was over, though it was nothing less than she had expected. But it did leave her wondering how Sherlock's brother would react when the test did in fact prove positive.

Two days later, she got her answer. She had just finished feeding and changing Baby Hooper when a nurse came to the door and announced that she had a visitor. Molly gave her the nod to admit them. It was a very different Mycroft who came through the door, this time.

He came in looking rather ruffled. He was trying, without success, to control a very powerful emotion. He looked at Molly, seated in the nursing chair, holding her baby, walked straight over to her, knelt down on one knee and put a slightly trembling hand on the baby's head. Molly was so taken aback, she couldn't speak. They were, all three, frozen in that tableau for a long moment, then Mycroft stood, stepped back and wiped his hand across his brow in a very uncharacteristic gesture. Molly found her voice first.

'Mycroft, please sit down.'

He looked around for a chair, saw one against the wall and drew it forward, to sit diagonally opposite her.

'Miss Hooper….'he began and then seemed to lose his concentration and falter.

'Molly. Please, call me Molly.' She felt quite moved by Mycroft's obvious discomfiture.

'Molly,' he began again, 'as I am sure you have guessed, the paternity test proved positive….'

'No, Mycroft,' she interrupted, quite calmly, 'I didn't need to guess. I know who the father of my baby is.'

Mycroft then looked even more flustered.

'I am so sorry Miss….Molly, I mean Molly. I did not intend in any way to impugn your virtue. Please, I do apologise!'

Molly could not help herself. She began to giggle but quickly regained control and said,

'Mycroft, I appreciate this is a difficult situation. I know what you were trying to say.' She paused, then smiled and, easing herself upright with one hand on the arm of her chair, she stepped forward, placed the baby in Mycroft's startled arms and sat back down again.

At first, he just stared at the little creature, as though it were about to explode, but then he seemed to relax and settled into a more comfortable position, gazing into his nephew's wide-awake eyes, with a strange smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

'He looks just like Sherlock did at this age, all hair and eyes. We have photographs at home that could be him!'

This was a side to Mycroft Holmes that Molly could never have imagined existed and she was utterly charmed. She suddenly understood that he really had been concerned about his brother, for all these years, and had, perhaps, not entirely been the rabid control freak that Sherlock had made him out to be. It was a revelation.

Mycroft was completely engrossed in the baby. He began to rock, very gently, from side to side, as he studied every pore of the child's face. Molly didn't know much about Sherlock's up-bringing but, from her knowledge of the Holmes brothers, she had surmised that theirs had not been a particularly loving home. Taking into account the seven year age difference between them, she imagined that the older brother had been obliged to assume quite a parental role for his younger sibling from a very early age.

In many ways, this explained much about their fraught relationship. It seemed almost inevitable that Sherlock would become the perennial stroppy teenager, who thought he knew it all, to Mycroft's disapproving father figure, who had forgotten what it was like to be young. A psychoanalyst could make a whole career out of unravelling the two of them, she thought.

'You have the magic touch,' Molly said, breaking the comfortable silence. The baby was sound asleep. Mycroft looked up, smiling rather sheepishly – a mixture of pleasure at the compliment and embarrassment at having revealed his softer side.

'What have you named him?' he asked.

'I haven't, yet. I wanted to talk to you first,' Molly replied.

'Yes,' responded Mycroft, 'we do have rather a lot to talk about, don't we.' It was a statement, rather than a question.

He stood up and placed the baby in the little crib, making sure to lay him on his side and cover him over with the thermal blanket. Then he turned to Molly and said,

'Do you mind if I remove my jacket? It is rather warm in here.'

Molly gave her consent, with a little shrug, marvelling at the complex social rules that governed this man's everyday life. Mycroft took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair before sitting back down and folding his hands in his lap. He looked at Molly, inviting her to speak first.

'I would like to call him William, after my dad, and his surname will be Hooper-Holmes. But I wondered if there was a particular family name that you thought Sherlock might like him to have.' Molly paused.

Mycroft steepled his fingers below his chin, in a gesture so painfully reminiscent of Sherlock himself. He seemed to be giving the matter very careful consideration. Then he took a breath and replied,

'Our mother's maiden name was Vernet but she was a member of the Howard family, through the distaff line.'

He looked at Molly as though this should mean something to her but other than the fact that, if one were a member of a family one would expect to share the same surname, she could not see the significance of his remark. He saw her confusion and elucidated.

'Through her mother – our grandmother – Violet Vernet was a descendent of the Howard family, who made a practice of sacrificing their daughters to the Tudor court, in the 16th Century, in exchange for wealth and power,' he explained. 'She was distantly related to Kathryn Howard, the fifth wife of Henry VIII, and, of course, to Anne Boleyn, Henry's second wife, who was Kathryn's cousin. Both ladies, sadly, met a very grim and untimely end.'

Molly was stunned by this revelation. She had been vaguely aware that Sherlock was 'connected' but she had no idea how well. But she quickly regained her composure.

'William Howard Hooper-Holmes,' she ran it by them both. 'Quite a lot of 'H's but it does have a certain ring to it,' she concluded. 'And Howard does sound like a given name as well as a surname so, yes, I like it'. She nodded, appreciatively. That was settled, then.

'Now, Miss…I…I mean Molly, if you wish to register Sherlock as William's father, since he is officially deceased, you will need this.' He reached round into the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted a folded piece of A4 paper, handing it across to her. She opened it. It was the Paternity Test Report. She read it through.

'Ninety-eight percent?' she queried, with a rising intonation.

'Yes, well, obviously I did not have a sample of Sherlock's saliva to hand so I submitted my own for the test. As we both know, I am not this baby's father. Consequently, the match was not quite perfect but, as – again - both you and I know, it is near enough. The registrar will accept it as proof of paternity. But, if you encounter any difficulties, please let me know and I will deal with it.'

He nodded, confidently. Molly knew that he was very good at dealing with things.

'Now, Mycroft, I know that you have some means of communicating with Sherlock but I must ask you not to tell him about William. I'm worried that, if he knew about him, he would want to come back and, even if he didn't want to come back, it might be very distracting for him and could make him careless, perhaps put him in danger.' She looked to Mycroft for a response.

He inspected his hands, now resting on his knees.

'I agree entirely that it would be better by far, for him, if he were kept in the dark about this. He really cannot return yet. It would be far too dangerous. You can rest assured that I will not burden him with this knowledge.'

Molly was quite amazed at how well this conversation was going. They had agreed on two out of two points, so far.

'Now, M…Molly, we really need to discuss your domestic arrangements,' he began. She fixed him with a rather wary look. 'Please don't be alarmed. And please be assured that I only have yours and your baby's best interests in mind. You live alone. You have no family nearby, in fact you have had no visits from any family members since the child was born…'

'Are you spying on me, Mycroft?' Molly was mortified.

He inclined his head to the side and bit his upper lip, exhaled sharply, then said,

'I do have the hospital under surveillance, yes. Even before the test result came in, I was fairly confident that Sherlock was your baby's father and so his and your safety was paramount.' He paused, to collect himself. Molly just stared at him, dumbfounded. He went on,

'This child is not only Sherlock's heir, he is my heir, too. He is very important, very dear to me.' Molly could see what a strain it was on this normally so inscrutable man to bare his soul in this way and she was moved that he was showing her his vulnerability. She conceded the point with a small nod and a shrug.

'My family are coming down on Saturday,' she explained. 'My mother and my sister both work in the week.'

'I do appreciate their circumstances, Molly.'

 _There, he had said it, without a hesitation, at last!_

'It is exactly for this reason that I would like to engage a neonatal nurse to help you take care of William…just for a few weeks, perhaps,' he added as he saw the alarm in her eyes, again. 'Please allow me to do this for you.'

He was pleading, now. Mycroft Holmes was pleading with her!

She knew he was right, of course. Here in the Mother and Baby Unit, everything was ergonomically designed to facilitate all the tasks involved in baby care to maximum efficiency. And there was always someone around to give advice or lend a hand. Once she left here, in a day or two, she would be on her own and the prospect was rather daunting. She looked at Mycroft. He was waiting for her to complete her internal dialogue.

'OK,' she agreed. 'But just for a month, yes?'

'For as long or as short a time as you feel necessary,' he assured her.

'Now, can we talk about your apartment…?'

The startled look reappeared. Mycroft opened his hands in an imploring gesture.

'You live on the second floor of a building with no lift AND you have no access to a garden,' he stated the obvious. 'Carrying a baby, a pushchair, shopping and all the other things that one must carry up and down those stairs is going to make your life very difficult, is it not?'

He spoke gently and reasoningly and she knew he was right, yet again, but her flat was her home and she loved it.

'I have taken the liberty of making an offer on a very comfortable garden flat, not ten minutes' walk from St Bart's. It would be extremely convenient for your work and it has an entry phone system and CCTV security surveillance. They have agreed to take it off the market until you have had the opportunity to view it. If you don't like it, Molly, I will withdraw the offer and we can look elsewhere. But you do need a ground floor flat and you do need a garden. Children need outdoor space and, believe me, if your child is anything like his father, he will need it more than most. We grew up in a very large house but two consecutive rainy days would have Sherlock bouncing off the walls. I remember it well.'

This had been quite a long speech. Mycroft had kept talking so as not to give Molly the opportunity to raise any objections until he had made all his points. He was very good at that, as well.

'But I own my flat,' she said, a little plaintively.

'You part own it, Molly. It's a shared ownership and you own fifty percent – which is admirable for a single woman of your age, living in London.' He paused and smiled, kindly. 'You would not have to sell your property. You could let it out and it would provide you with an income. I would buy the new flat outright and the freehold would be in your name. You would be rent and mortgage free.' He paused, again, for her to consider.

'Let me think about it, please, Mycroft,' she asked.

'Will you at least go and take a look?' he implored.

After a small hesitation, she nodded and he breathed a sigh of relief.

At this point, a gentle knock at the door announced the arrival of the tea trolley. The great English tradition of afternoon tea was still observed in this modern institution. The matronly care assistant poked her head round the door and Mycroft jumped to his feet, feeling rather exposed, having been caught without his jacket on.

'Oh, you sit yourself down, dearie,' the lady chided. 'I just wondered if you wanted a cup of tea, Mum. And what about you, Dad? Would you like a cuppa?'

Molly tried not to smile. She doubted that anyone had ever called Mycroft 'dearie' in his life, let alone 'Dad'.

'Just a fresh jug of water for me, thank you. This one is nearly empty,' said Molly and, making an executive decision, she added, 'I think Uncle Mycroft would love a cup of tea.' She looked to him for acquiescence and he nodded, politely.

The lady withdrew her head and reappeared a moment later with a fresh water jug and a cup and saucer, in that strange green colour that all institutions within the British public sector seemed to favour. She placed the jug on the bedside cabinet and took up the empty one, then walked around the bed and placed the cup of what could only be described as 'builder's' tea into Mycroft's outstretched hand. She then patted him, kindly, on the shoulder and left. Molly was impressed with his self-control. He barely showed any indignation at all. He took one sip of the tea, considered his options and decided to drink it, anyway.

'There are a couple more topics I would like to deal with, if you are not too tired, Molly,' he resumed.

'No, I'm fine,' she replied, 'but I think I will lie down, if that's OK.'

'Of course,' he declared, standing up and offering his hand, to assist her to transfer to the bed. Once she was settled, with a large glass of water in her hand, he raised the next subject.

'If my brother were here, he would, of course, contribute to the cost of caring for his son. As he is not, I will assume this responsibility on his behalf. I have taken yet another liberty, I fear, and arranged for a sum of money to be deposited, on a regular monthly basis, into your current account.'

He looked at her, to see how she was receiving this news. He was quite relieved to see that she seemed to have given up objecting. So he went on.

'Should this sum prove insufficient, I trust that you would tell me, so that I may rectify the situation.' He leaned forward, pleading again. She gave a resigned nod.

He had only one more request but he feared that this might be the sticking point.

'I would very much like to put William down for Harrow.'

'What?' Molly asked, genuinely confused.

'I would like to put his name down for Harrow School. I am an Old Etonian, needless to say, but Mummy felt that Harrow would be better suited to Sherlock's temperament and she was quite right, of course. So, it is only fitting that William should go to his father's school. And it goes without saying that I would cover the fees.'

'But, Mycroft, he's not even a day old!' Molly declared. 'And isn't Harrow a boarding school?'

'It is, indeed a boarding school, one of the finest, and it is never too early to put one's child's name down for a good school,' he countered.

'Look, I do appreciate what you are doing and I am very grateful, believe me, but I really could never send my child to boarding school.'

Molly had known several ex-boarding school pupils at University and they all seemed a bit damaged, in some way, and spoke about their house masters and matrons and the other kids in their houses more than they did their actual parents and siblings. She did not want this for her child. Mycroft could see that he had hit an immoveable object, with this one. He sat back and frowned, momentarily, then rallied.

'What about Westminster? It's a good school and a day school. He could still live at home. And he wouldn't go until he was thirteen, anyway.'

Surely this was a reasonable compromise?

'Alright, I can see that this is really important to you so I will agree to you putting him down for Westminster,' Molly conceded, stalling for time when she could table some realistic objections.

Mycroft leant forward, with his hands on his knees and breathed a sigh of relief.

'I fear that I have tired you, Molly,' he observed, 'and you need to rest so I will not disturb you further, today.'

He stood to put on his jacket.

'There is just one thing I would like to say,' Molly put in, causing him to pause.

'I'm going to tell Sherlock's friends that William is his baby, as soon as I can gather them all together. And I want to ask John Watson, Greg Lestrade and Mrs Hudson to be his god parents. I'd like them to be part of William's life.'

Mycroft pursed his lips and smoothed back his hair. He walked over to the bed and took Molly's hand.

'I can have no objection to my brother's friends being god parents to his son but how will you explain William's paternity?' He looked concerned. The dates just did not fit.

'Don't worry,' she replied, 'I have a very good cover story.'

Mycroft was not so sure but he patted her hand, smiled and took his leave.

ooOoo


	7. Life After Death Chapter Seven

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Two - Consequences**

 **Chapter Six**

Molly spent three days in the Mother and Baby Unit, a luxury which she would appreciate in the days, weeks and months to come. She welcomed the opportunity to focus entirely on the needs of her baby, without having to worry about mundane things, like keeping house, cooking meals or working for a living. During this time, she and William fell into a comfortable routine of feeding, changing, playing and sleeping.

The feeding routine was dictated by William. He would wake up and begin to make little sounds which told Molly that he was hungry. She would begin her infection control routine, cleaning her nipples to make sure they were free from harmful bacteria. As she did this, she talked to William, answering his grunts and squeaks, just like a normal conversation. Molly found that the little sounds he made stimulated her lactation. By the time he was fully awake and ready to eat, she was ready to feed him.

On the third day, Molly noticed that when she reached down into the crib to pick him up, William hunched his shoulders in preparation for the lift. She found this quite amazing. This little creature had spent almost nine months entirely supported in an aquatic environment, cushioned from the full effects of gravity but, in such a short time, he had begun to find ways of dealing with it.

Molly had read so much about early child development and here was the living proof that babies are consummate adaptive organisms, hardwired to react and assimilate. She felt privileged to be able to witness this process first hand. And every baby was different. The nurses all commented that William was a 'placid' baby but Molly knew this was a misconception. William was a thinker, just like his dad.

On the morning of the fourth day, it was time to go home. Mycroft had engaged a specialist neonatal nurse, Caroline, whom he had brought to the Unit the day before, for Molly's approval. They chatted for a few minutes, whilst Mycroft took phone calls in the en suite bathroom. The two young women seemed to be on the same wave length. Caroline gave assurances that Molly would be calling the shots and the nurse would be there for back up and support, not to take over. Molly thought Mycroft had made a good choice - something else he was good at.

The next day, Caroline arrived at the Neo-natal Unit accompanied by Anthea, Mycroft's PA, and brought with her a state-of-the-art baby carrier cum car seat. Molly had fed and burped William and dressed him in his 'going away' outfit – a beautiful red all-in-one suit, lined in soft fur fabric, with little mittens attached – a present from Maria. It suited his dark colouring so well.

Molly popped William into the baby carrier, checked she had packed everything and said thank you and goodbye to the staff. She left behind the flowers that John and Mary had brought. They would be used to brighten up the reception area of the Unit. Stepping outside for the first time in nearly a week was a bit of a shock to Molly's system and she was very glad of the luxury car and the willing assistants, all courtesy of Mycroft.

Back at her building, the chauffeur carried her case up the stairs, Caroline carried William and Andrea assisted her. Molly had to acknowledge that Mycroft had been right again. This was not an ideal situation for a single mum and her child. She resolved to go and view the garden flat as soon as possible.

ooOoo

Two weeks later, Molly was waiting, on tenterhooks, in her sitting room for guests to arrive. She had invited John and Mary, Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade over to 'wet the baby's head', as her mother would say. She was looking forward to seeing them all and showing William off but not to the real purpose of the gathering.

Caroline had the afternoon off, which suited Molly fine because she didn't have to explain how she could afford a live-in nanny before she had revealed William's true paternity. But before she left, Caroline had been out and bought cake and biscuits, and a bottle of reasonably priced champagne. Molly had laid these out in the kitchen, set out the good china and tidied up a bit. The flat looked presentable.

As she sat on the sofa, rehearsing her lines, the doorbell rang. It was John, Mary and Mrs H. It was all smiles and hugs and kisses for the first couple of minutes and then everyone found a seat.

'OK,' said John, 'where is the little beastie, then?'

'Just having his afternoon nap,' replied Molly. 'He is a creature of habit. He likes his routines so, this time, every day, is nap time. It's quite handy, really. It gives me the chance to put my feet up. Tea, anyone?'

She went off into the kitchen, closely followed by Mrs Hudson, who insisted on lending a hand.

'I must say, dear, you are looking very well. Motherhood suits you!' Mrs H declared, with an approving smile. 'It's so good that you've got this baby and that John has Mary. It must make it so much easier for you to cope with… well, you know.' Mrs Hudson's voice went a bit choked at that point and Molly saw that her eyes shone with unshed tears. She reached out to hug the other lady but Mrs H brushed her away.

'Oh, don't take any notice of me - silly old bat. Most days, I'm fine but every now and then, especially seeing you all together, well, I do miss him. His things are still in the flat, you know.'

Molly was aghast. She had never given a thought to how Mrs Hudson might be coping with Sherlock's 'death'. And she was faced every day with constant reminders of his presence in her home. Although, officially, Mrs Hudson was just Sherlock's landlady, in truth their relationship had been so much closer. She thought of him as a surrogate son and he treated her as a kind of foster mother. She was probably the person he loved most.

As Molly boiled the kettle and set out the tea things, Mrs Hudson continued,

'Mycroft has been paying the rent, you know. He asked me to leave everything where it was and he comes over now and then. I think he uses the flat as kind of bolt hole, somewhere no one can find him. Perhaps he feels close to Sherlock there. I mean, I know they didn't get on well but they were still brothers, after all, and they were all they had. There was no other family, not that I knew about, anyway. So, with Sherlock gone, Mycroft's all alone in the world. A bit like me…' she added, under her breath. Molly reached over and took her hand.

'You are not alone, Mrs Hudson. I really want you to get to know William. You can be his London granny! And…well, I have something to ask all of you but I want to wait until Greg gets here.'

As if on cue, the doorbell announced Greg Lestrade's arrival and the party was complete. Molly and Mrs H. carried in the tea things and set them out on the coffee table for everyone to help themselves.

Now they were all assembled, Molly knew she had to get on with her mission. If she put it off any longer, she would lose her resolve and not do it at all so she cleared her throat and said,

'There's something I really have to tell you all.'

Everyone stopped talking and looked at her, expectantly. She gazed around at all their faces, thought _Oh, God!_ ' and spoke her lines.

'I expect you have all heard the rumour that I had William through a sperm donor.'

No one spoke. In fact, no one moved, either. They all stood like rabbits in the headlights, trying to avoid each other's eyes and feeling rather awkward.

'Well, that's what I told everybody,' Molly added and they all began to relax.

'But it's not true.' Their ears pricked up again and she had their full attention.

'William's father is Sherlock,' Molly declared.

It was as though a stun bomb had gone off in the middle of her sitting room. Everyone – except Mary – gasped and almost took a physical step backwards, such was their amazement. No one said a word for the longest time and then Greg broke the silence, blurting out,

'But how? Where? When?'

'Oh, goodness me, Inspector Lestrade, you can't ask a young lady questions like that!' Mrs Hudson chimed in, immediately, making everyone laugh a little too much.

'It's alright, Mrs H,' said Molly, with a diffident smile. 'I want to explain what happened.'

They were all gawping at her, in rapt attention, desperate for an explanation, curious to hear what she had to say. Molly took a large gulp of water – she still couldn't stomach tea – composed herself and began.

'The night Sherlock went to Kitty Riley's flat and heard all that rubbish that Moriarty had cooked up, he came to St. Bart's. I was getting ready to go home and, suddenly, he was just there, standing in the lab, in the dark. He was really upset. Earlier in the day, I'd asked him if he was OK because I thought he looked sad but he just shrugged it off…you know what he's like! …What he was like,' she corrected herself.

'But that night, he told me he wasn't OK. I asked him what was wrong. He didn't say, straight away. Instead, he asked me whether, if he wasn't everything _I_ thought he was or everything _he_ thought he was, would I still want to help him. Well, the answer to that was obvious. I asked him what he needed and he said, '…You.''

Just talking about their encounter in the lab, that dreadful night, brought back so many terrible memories that Molly felt her breath catch in her chest and tears sprang to her eyes, over-flowed her lashes and trickled down her cheeks. She shook her head, unable to say anything more.

Her audience stared in stunned silence then John came forward and hugged her very tight. It seemed they were all finding it hard to speak, such was the overload of emotions. But John managed to find his voice.

'No, Molly, that makes perfect sense, it really does. He was desperate that night. I've never seen him like it. He told me there was something he had to do and when I said I would come with him he said he had to do it alone. He must have realised, right there and then that what he needed was you. And d'you know what? I sort of feel happy for him…'

John rubbed his forehead and looked at the floor, regaining control of the emotion that was threatening to undo him. Having gathered himself together, he took both Molly's hands in his and said,

'I am really grateful to you, Molly, that you could give him comfort when he really needed it. And I can understand why you didn't tell us about this before…No, I understand completely. It must have been so hard for you, keeping all this to yourself. But I'm really glad you've told us, now.'

He leaned in and gave Molly a peck on the cheek.

Into the silent room, heavy with private thoughts, a querulous little voice intruded. William was awake. Molly excused herself and went off to her bedroom, where William had been napping in his crib.

She picked up her darling babe and hugged him close. She had told another lie – yes, another one, on top of all the many others - but she knew it was necessary and, thankfully, they had all believed her. Yes, it did make sense that Sherlock might seek out physical comfort when faced with certain death. They could all buy into that. She had taken a big lie and wrapped it up in a small amount of truth and everyone had swallowed it. So, in doing a bad thing, she had accomplished a good thing. Sherlock's biggest secret was still safe and, therefore, so were his friends. Molly dried her tears, smiled at William's curious expression and took him to greet his guests.

While Molly had been in the bedroom, everyone had found their voices and were all talking at once, about her revelation, but they all smiled and gave a little cheer when she appeared with the baby. Mrs Hudson went to the fridge to retrieve the champagne and glasses, and Greg removed the cork with a practiced hand and poured everyone a glass – even Molly had a tiny sip – and they all raised their glasses in a toast to William and Molly and to Sherlock, too.

Now came the easy bit, to ask all Sherlock's friends to be god parents. They were thrilled and delighted, they replied. They took turns holding their god son-to-be, until he got really fractious, mostly because he had been rather expecting a hearty meal, not a game of 'pass the parcel,' with himself in the starring role. Molly excused herself again and went back into her bedroom to feed William, leaving the others to hold a post mortem over the surprising turn of events.

About twenty minutes on, as Molly was just redressing her baby, on the makeshift changing table which was actually the top of her chest of drawers, there was a tentative tap on the door. She called for the tapper to come in. It was John. He perched on the edge of the bed and gave that little cough that he often did when he was about to say something he wasn't entirely sure of.

'What's the matter, John?' Molly asked.

'Please don't take this the wrong way,' he began, looking even more uncomfortable by the second. 'I'm a doctor – as you know, obviously,' – Molly could not suppress a smile – 'and I can't help but notice that Sherlock has been…gone for just over ten months and William is only three weeks old. So, not to put too fine a point on is, how can Sherlock be William's father?'

Molly could see how difficult John was finding this conversation but she admired him for having the courage to voice his doubts. She was also very glad she had anticipated this question.

'William was born two weeks late, John,' she said, blithely. 'In fact, if he hadn't come when he did, they were planning to induce me,' she added, for authenticity. 'Trust Sherlock's baby to take his own time,' she giggled.

John gave an exaggerated nod and exhaled loudly. He looked very relieved. Then, he asked,

'But does Mycroft know? About the baby?'

'Yes, I told him first, the day after William was born,' she replied.

'Ah, well, that makes sense, then.' John nodded, almost triumphantly. 'That day we came to see you, in the Mother and Baby Unit, remember? When we were leaving, I could have sworn I saw Mycroft get out of a car and come into the hospital. Mary said I was seeing things but I was so sure and now I know I did. He was coming to see you, wasn't he?'

Molly nodded and smiled, apologetically.

'No, it's OK, Molly, really it is. I just thought I was going a bit mad but now I know I wasn't so everything is fine!' John smiled and hugged her and kissed William on the top of his head.

'Oh, my goodness, young man,' he said, fixing the baby with a stern look, 'I have to say, you are the spitting image of your daddy but, if you are even just half as annoying as him, you are going to drive your poor mum to drink!'

ooOoo

7


	8. Life After Death Chapter Eight

**Life After Death – A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Three - Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter One**

Molly Hooper put on her coat, picked up her bag and walked out of the Path lab at St. Bart's hospital. She took the lift to the ground floor, then walked through the hospital 'Main Street', to the back of the building, out through the rear entrance, across a court yard and stopped at a gate with an entry phone key pad. She pressed the bell and waited to be admitted, looking up into the CCTV camera above the gate, to facilitate recognition. The speaker went live and a voice said,

'Hi, Miss Hooper. Come on in,' as the entry lock buzzed to release the gate.

Molly pushed the gate open, passed through and made sure it clicked shut behind her. She went down the paved path to the front door of the hospital crèche and let herself into the building. Inside, she smiled and waved to the lady on reception, signed her name, in the log book on the counter top, and continued on through the internal security door, opened for her by the receptionist behind the glass screen. Turning left, she walked down the corridor to the door labelled 'Paddington Bear', pushed it open and went in.

'Mummy!' cried a shrill voice and a little body hurled itself at her from the other side of the room. Molly caught her son, William, and swung him up in the air, twirling around and hugging him.

'Hello, little boy! What have you been doing today?' she asked the tousle-haired child, holding him in the crook of her arm so they were face to face. He looked at her, with huge, sea-green eyes and said,

'Cottoning.'

'Oh, really?' Molly smiled, 'and what have you been cottoning?' she asked. Willaim pointed towards a table, against the far wall.

'Dere', he said.

Molly walked over to the table, where two nursery nurses sat with three small children, around two or three years old. The children were holding homemade cardboard cut-outs of animals, which had been punctured around the edges and had long, broad, brightly coloured boot laces secured with a large knot. The children were threading the laces through the holes – in and out – all the way round the edges of the card shapes.

'Oh, I see,' said Molly, nodding knowingly, 'you've been sewing.'

'Yet,' he son affirmed, with a solemn nod.

'Hi there, Miss Hooper. Yeah, William's been a busy boy today. He's been painting and threading and he ate all his lunch. It was lamb casserole, which is his favourite, I think.' The young woman continued, in her cheerful Australian accent, to fill Molly in on William's busy day at the nursery, whilst collecting his coat and back pack from his coat peg and packing his art work into the bag, as Molly helped him on with his coat. By the time the nursery nurse had completed her daily report, William was dressed for the outdoors and, with his back pack on, he was ready to leave.

'Right, well, thank you, Carly. Say 'goodbye', William. See you tomorrow. Bye,' Molly gave a small wave and, taking William's hand in hers, she walked with him, back through the building, to the pram store, just inside the front door, where he climbed into his buggy, for the walk home. Fifteen minutes later, she keyed in the code to enter her building and unlocked the internal door that gave access to hers and William's flat.

This had been Molly's daily routine – Monday to Friday - for the last two years, ever since she returned to work from six month's maternity leave, after giving birth to William – the son of Sherlock Holmes.

Molly lifted William out of the buggy and set him down on the tiled hall floor. She unfastened the buttons of his coat and he shrugged it off and handed it to her, before turning to go into the sitting room.

'Shoes off, baby boy,' Molly said.

William plopped himself down on the sitting room carpet and pulled off his outdoor shoes, whilst Molly hung up their coats in the hall way and parked the buggy in the walk-in hall cupboard. She removed her own shoes and stepped into her slippers, then followed William into the sitting room. He was already sitting on the sofa, with the TV remote held in both hands, pointing it at the set.

'What are you watching, sweetie?' she asked.

'CeeBeeBeeCee,' he replied and pressed the appropriate buttons to find the desired channel. Molly smiled and ruffled his hair, then went through to the kitchen, to start preparing their supper.

ooOoo

When Mycroft Holmes had first suggested this flat, Molly had been less than enthusiastic about the idea. But when she came to view it, she was quite over-whelmed. The flat took up one half of the entire ground floor of a detached Edwardian villa, on a leafy crescent which curved around a large private square. It was reached via a communal hallway that gave access, also, to the flats above and the one opposite.

It comprised of a Minton-tiled hall, with a large understairs cupboard – ideal for storing William's buggy, a square sitting room, a good sized modern fitted kitchen, a generously sized master bedroom with en suite shower room, a guest bedroom with en suite shower room and a smaller bed room – perfect for William – with a modern family bathroom right opposite.

French doors gave egress from the kitchen onto a small paved patio which, in turn, opened out into a large, secure walled garden, mostly laid to lawn, with perennial borders and, down at the bottom, two mature trees and a little garden shed. Molly could not have imagined ever being able to afford such a large and well-appointed property in the centre of London and it brought home to her, quite forcibly, just what being a descendant of two of the wives of Henry VIII meant, in practical terms.

It had taken a little persuasion but she had, eventually, agreed to the arrangement and now, wondered how she had ever managed all those years in her tiny, postage stamp flat on the second floor of a featureless 1960's block, with no lift. She had furnished the flat herself, mostly from second hand furniture shops, but she had found some very nice pieces which suited the period of the property very well.

William's uncle also gave her a very generous monthly allowance, which she begged him to reduce, when she saw how much it was but he stubbornly refused, so she set up a standing order with her bank so that, on the last day of each month, any money still in her current account was transferred into a high-interest savings account. This was building up into a nice little nest egg which, she thought, might put William through University one day, without the need for a student loan.

Mycroft was a regular visitor to the flat, coming over at least once a week to see William, and he and Molly had fallen into a comfortable companionship. He was, actually, quite good company, with a very dry sense of humour and a sharp wit, which Molly appreciated. She was convinced that the other residents of the house thought she was Mycroft's mistress, which she found quite hilarious but, when she mentioned it to him, he was mortified. He eventually saw the funny side and rather appreciated irony.

ooOoo

Busying herself with preparing their evening meal, Molly reflected on how much her life had changed in the last three and a quarter years. Yes, it was almost exactly three years and three months since Sherlock had gone away. During that time, she had heard nothing of or from him. She knew that Mycroft had limited contact with his brother but he never told her anything about where Sherlock was or what he was doing. She could only imagine that Sherlock was still alive or otherwise, surely, Mycroft would have said something?

As these thoughts ran through her head, Molly heard the entry phone buzz. She walked back through the sitting room, past William, still intent on his children's TV show, and pressed the answer button on the entry phone. The image which appeared in the viewing screen was instantly recognisable as Sherlock's brother. Molly pressed the lock release button and, at the same time, called to her son,

'William, Uncle Mycroft's here.'

As she watched the image of Mycroft step forward and out of sight of the camera, she opened the flat front door to admit him.

'Good evening, Molly,' Mycroft Holmes smiled, and gave her a peck on each cheek, just as William raced into the hallway and threw himself at Mycroft, shouting.

'Mytoff! Mytoff! Tum-see!'

'Oh, William, hello!' Mycroft exclaimed, completely disarmed by William's enthusiastic welcome. He allowed the little boy to grab his hand and drag him into the sitting room, to sit on the sofa, as William pointed at the image on the TV screen, chattering away in a strange _patua_ which, fortunately, contained enough recognisable English words to convey some sense. Whilst giving appropriate responses to William's rapid-fire chatter, Mycroft removed his brogues and placed them, out of the way, to the side of the sofa, fanning out his be-stockinged toes, against the carpet.

Molly boiled the kettle and made a pot of loose-leaf tea for herself and her guest. She carried the tea tray into the sitting room and placed it on the coffee table before pouring two cups and handing one to him. Taking one herself, she sat in the single arm chair. She watched with amusement as her son explained the finer points of the TV action to his uncle, who listened with rapt attention.

It was a nature programme, about deadly animals. The presenter was admiring a particularly fearsome looking spider and explaining, in graphic detail, how it caught and ate birds. Molly was not sure how much of the commentary William actually understood but he was certainly showing a great deal of interest in the images. She could not help but compare him to his father, who also had such an enquiring mind, but she wondered whether Sherlock would have thought the spider's feeding habits worthy of storage space in his 'hard drive'.

The programme ended and William was not interested in the one that followed, so he turned off the TV and, taking Mycroft again by the hand, dragged him off to his room, for some Lego building. As Mycroft was pulled away, Molly asked if he would like to stay for supper. He accepted, graciously, and she went back to the kitchen, leaving them to their game.

The 'family' ate a companionable supper at the kitchen table then Molly took William for his bath, whilst Mycroft made and took some phone calls on his mobile. When William was dried and dressed for bed in his favourite pyjamas, she carried him into his room and let him choose a story book before she tucked him into bed. He chose his current favourite – 'Where the Wild Things Are' – and Molly read it to him. When the story ended, William went back over the book, commenting on the best bits and admiring the pictures. Then it was time for him to go to sleep. Molly took the large framed photograph from the top of William's chest of drawers and showed it to him.

'Say 'night-night' to Daddy, Will,' Molly said softly. William pressed his little Cupid's bow mouth to the photograph of Sherlock, which Molly had sourced from the London Evening Standard photo archive, specifically for this purpose. She wanted William to know who his father was and what he looked like. She had spent a long time, searching through all the press photos of Sherlock in the archive, before she found this one. It was a head shot, taken outside the home of the banker that he had helped to rescue from kidnappers. He was looking off into the distance, his hair lifted by the breeze, his lips slightly parted. He looked beautiful.

'Nigh-nigh, daddy,' William said.

The nightly ritual complete, Molly kissed William, covered him with his duvet and left the room, pulling the door to behind her.

Mycroft was sitting on the sofa, looking pensive. He usually left, once William was put to bed, but he didn't look as though he was going anywhere, on this occasion.

'Everything alright?' Molly asked.

'I have something to tell you,' he replied, looking up with very a serious expression. Molly felt the blood drain from her face and she put her hand to her mouth, thinking the unthinkable. Mycroft jumped up and caught her by her upper arms.

'No, no, Molly! I'm so sorry! It's not that! It's not bad news at all….' he said, urgently. Molly dropped into the arm chair and put her hand on her forehead, gasping for breath, trying to regain her composure. Mycroft went into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two generous glasses of red wine. He placed one in Molly's still trembling hand and sat on the sofa with his own. Molly looked at him, with trepidation.

'Sherlock is coming back,' Mycroft said, and took a large swig of his wine.

ooOoo


	9. Life After Death Chapter Nine

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Three – Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter Two**

Molly lay in bed that night, unable to sleep, going over and over in her head what Mycroft had told her. The last of Moriarty's lieutenants had been 'neutralised', one way or another, and his vast organisation dismantled. The calls Mycroft took that evening had confirmed this. So there was no longer any barrier to Sherlock returning. It was just a matter of making the necessary arrangements. Mycroft calculated that Sherlock could be arriving back in the UK as early as the following Tuesday – in just six days' time.

Molly was anxious that Sherlock be told about his son as soon as possible and she was adamant that she should be the person to tell him.

'I need to meet with him, as soon as he gets back,' she insisted.

So, it was agreed that, by which ever means Sherlock returned – air, sea or rail – Molly would meet him at the port of entry and they would be given a private place to talk.

After Mycroft left, Molly went to her bedroom and opened the safe in the bottom of the heavy oak wardrobe, taking out a plain, buff, jiffy bag. She took from the bag a memory stick, fitted it into her lap top and brought up the list of folders. Opening each folder, one at a time, she looked at the contents.

The first folder was labelled 'Before'. In this were all the photos Maria had taken of her during her pregnancy, the videos of her two scans and a copy of each of the scan images, showing the developing foetus, in-utero.

The second folder was labelled 'During'. This contained the video of her labour and William's birth and photos of him lying on her chest, immediately after the birth.

The third was labelled 'After'. It contained photos of her with William, taken in the Mother and Baby Unit, feeding him, playing with him, cuddling him.

The next folder was labelled 'William's First Year'. It was full of stills and videos of all the landmark moments of her son's first year – first smile, first tooth, rolling over, sitting up, pulling himself to his feet, his first faltering steps and so on and so on. She scrolled through this record of her son's life, on to 'William's Second Year' and then the latest edition, 'William's Third Year'. This one was only half complete.

Molly had created this biography for one reason only – to give it to Sherlock, on his return, so that he could share in every significant moment of his son's life. She closed all the documents, removed the memory stick and pressed it to her lips, then put it back in the jiffy bag and returned it to the safe, until next Tuesday...

Lying in bed, Molly tried to picture in her head how her first meeting with Sherlock might go, but every scenario seemed to end with him storming out. In the end, she gave up trying to second guess the situation. She would just have to play it by ear. When the call came from Mycroft, two days later, Molly was both excited and apprehensive to learn that Sherlock would be arriving at Heathrow at eight-thirty in the morning, the following Wednesday. In just a few short days, she would see him again.

ooOoo

Molly sat in a private Arrivals lounge, in Terminal 5, at Heathrow airport, dressed in a beige wool suit and tan court shoes. She wore a plain Alice band, holding her hair back off her face but allowing it fall over her shoulders. She had applied her make up with extra care – the red badge of courage. She wanted to look her best for him.

She stood and walked over to the glass wall, which gave a panoramic view of the air field. In the grey light of early morning, there were many flashing yellow lights on moving airport vehicles, weaving in and out, amongst the aeroplanes, servicing their needs. As she stood, looking outside, she heard the door open. She took a deep breath and turned around.

The person walking toward her, across the plain grey carpet was so familiar and yet so strange. His hair was cut short at the back and sides and brushed back off his forehead. He wore his black overcoat but it looked scuffed and worn and it hung a little loosely from his shoulders. His face was thinner, making his cheek bones even more prominent. He wore dark glasses, like a rock star.

'Mycroft too busy running the country to come himself, was he?' His voice was the same rich baritone but it had a hard edge to it. Molly stepped forward to meet him in the middle of the room, and he stopped, suddenly, removing his dark glasses.

'My God… Molly, I …..I didn't recognise you!' He was clearly taken aback. Standing with the daylight behind her, he had only seen her in silhouette, and he had assumed she was one of his brother's minions, like the man who had met him off the plane and brought him to this room.

'Welcome home, Sherlock,' Molly said. She reached out to hug him but saw his body stiffen and his head jerk back, in an involuntary reflex. Instead of the hug she so wanted to give him, she squeezed his arm and stepped back out of his personal space. Three years of deep cover, alone and isolated, facing untold dangers, had left its mark. This man was not the same.

They stood looking at one another for an awkward moment, and then Molly indicated the seating area, inviting him to sit down, sitting down herself.

'I asked Mycroft if I could meet you off the plane,' Molly explained. 'He wanted to come himself but he let me come instead.'

She paused. Sherlock seemed to consider this information, then gave a slight shrug, took off his coat, laid it over the backrest and sat down opposite her.

'You look different, Molly. You've….changed.' He was scrutinizing her, scanning her, taking in all the little micro features and analysing them, as he did when meeting someone for the first time. She smiled, looking down at her hands, feeling a little flustered, like in the old days, when he complemented her on her appearance.

'I asked them to bring some tea, when you arrived,' she said, to change the subject. 'It should be here in a minute.'

Right on cue, the door opened and a young woman in cabin crew uniform came in with a tea tray. She placed it on the coffee table between them, smiled and left, without a word. Molly set about serving the tea.

'So, are you here to debrief me?' Sherlock asked, with a slightly mocking smile.

'To bring you up to speed, I think would be more accurate,' she replied.

'Oh,' he exclaimed, raising an eyebrow. 'So, what's everyone been up to while I've been away?' He sipped his tea and looked at her over the rim of his cup. 'How's John?'

'John's really good,' Molly said, with a smile of affection for the subject matter. 'He's gone back into practice, doing A and E at St. Mary's and making quite a name for himself as a trauma specialist. I think it really suits him. Reminds him of Afghanistan, I expect.'

She hesitated, fractionally, before going on.

'He met someone. She's called Mary and she's a solicitor - or a barrister, maybe. Something in the law, anyway. She's nice. They…er…they got married. Just over a year ago.' She glanced at his eyes, trying to gauge how he was taking this news but his face remained inscrutable. He nodded and said,

'That's good. That's what he wanted, to meet someone and settle down. Good for him.' He made an attempt at a smile but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

'What about Lestrade?' he asked.

'Ah, kind of the opposite, really. He was suspended for three months after, well, after you were arrested and escaped and all that. But once it was proven that all the crap Kitty Riley wrote was cooked up by Moriarty and that you were innocent after all, he was reinstated. And he got divorced, this time last year.'

'About time, too,' Sherlock scoffed. 'That wife of his couldn't be faithful if her life depended on it. I'm glad he finally saw sense.' He surprised Molly with the sincerity with which he spoke. He seemed genuinely aggrieved at the unfaithful wife, on his friend's behalf. Could it be that he had discovered empathy?

'Mrs Hudson?'

'Oh, she's absolutely fine. I see her quite often. She comes to stay over-night, now and then, or I go and see her or we just meet for coffee.'

Molly carefully avoided expanding on the reason for Mrs Hudson's over-night stays – as William's baby-sitter. That would come soon enough.

'Sherlock, about John and Greg and Mrs H, I've seen quite a lot of them whilst you've been away and I've told them an awful lot of lies over the years. When they find out you're alive, they'll know I've lied to them.'

She paused, momentarily, to think about what she was about to say. He pursed his lips and looked down at the floor.

'I am sorry, Molly. I should never have involved you in all of that and then left you to cope with the fall out,' he sighed, clearly mistaking her words for a rebuke..

'No, Sherlock, please don't be sorry. It had to be done and I did it willingly. I would have done anything to keep you and them safe. I don't regret any of it. But,' she beetled her brows, preparing herself for what she had to say next. 'Since I told the most lies, I really would like to be the one to tell them the truth. Please, would you let me do this?' She looked at him, beseechingly.

Sherlock was lost for words. The thing he had dreaded most about coming back was having to face the friends that he had duped, and admit to the deception. Yet here was Molly, actually volunteering to take on this onerous task. He did not know what to say.

She went on,

'I think it would be best if I got them all together and told them at the same time. It will be easier, only having to say it once, and I think it will be better for them, too, having each other there for support.'

He was struck by the simple logic of her plan. He could not see any flaws but then, he was no expert where this sort of situation was concerned. How did one go about breaking such news?

'Do you really want to do this?' he asked.

'Oh, I have to,' she replied, emphatically.

'Tell Mrs Hudson first,' he declared, endorsing the plan. 'She will understand and she'll help you. You'll need back up, in case things get out of hand. I'm thinking about John. He can be a bit irrational. She will know how to handle him. She's tougher than you think.'

Molly smiled. This was the old Sherlock, cutting straight to the heart of the problem and not bothering with the conventional niceties. And he was right about Mrs Hudson, who would be an invaluable ally in the difficult task ahead. She picked up the tea pot and offered him more tea.

'You are looking really well, Molly,' he said, as he accepted the refill. 'What has happened to you?' he asked, a little mystified wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows.

'I was thinking you might be able to tell me that. You've been scanning me ever since you got here,' she smiled, teasingly. 'What can you see, Sherlock? I'm sure you haven't lost your touch.'

He put down his cup and gazed at her, intently.

'You're self-assured, confident. Something has happened to give you a much stronger sense of your own worth. You look happy, fulfilled, in control of your own destiny.'

Molly felt a shudder run through her, at the intensity of his gaze and the devastating accuracy of his assessment but then he looked down at his tea and she breathed again.

'Will that do for starters?' he asked, picking up his cup and taking a sip. 'Tell me though, Molly, what has happened to you to bring about this….. transformation?'

She could not put it off any longer. Looking straight into his eyes, she said,

'I had a baby.'

He stared at her, frozen in the act of lowering his cup to its saucer, not even blinking, as his brain raced to process this information, as all the synapses fired, as the neurones configured and reconfigured and clicked into place and he made the logical deduction.

'What sex?'

His voice sounded hollow, almost disembodied.

She reached into her hand bag and took out a photo service envelope.

'He's a boy', she answered, holding out the envelope for him to take. 'His name is William.'

Sherlock put down his cup and saucer and took the proffered envelope. Molly saw that his hands shook as he opened it and slid out the photo print, turning it over to look at the image.

'It's very recent. I took it the day before yesterday,' she explained.

He stared at the picture of the small boy with dark wavy hair and piercing eyes. His free hand went involuntarily to his mouth, as he recognised his own features in this other human being. This child was the very image of him.

Molly began to talk rather fast.

'I hope you understand why I didn't let Mycroft tell you about him. I wanted to tell you but I knew it could put you in danger. I couldn't risk that. He's so like you, Sherlock. He's really clever, smart beyond his years. He thinks about things. He works things out. And he is beautiful...'

Sherlock was still sitting very still, staring at the face of his son.

Molly went on.

'I understand that this must be a huge shock, especially after everything you've been through but I needed to tell you before you found out some other way. I hope you understand.'

She was beginning to panic. This was not going well. She reached inside her hand bag again and took out the jiffy envelope, extended her hand and offered it to him. He took the jiffy, automatically, and held it in his hand without looking at it.

Molly stood up and said,

'It's all in there. Please look at it, Sherlock. Take as long as you need.'

She stood up, stepped over to him, put her hand on his shoulder, leaned down and kissed him gently on the cheek, then picked up her coat and bag. He still had not moved.

'I want you to know that I make no demands and I have no expectations,' Molly gasped, 'but I would love for you be a part of your son's life, for him and for you,' she concluded, with a quick nod, then turned and walked out of the room.

ooOoo

Sherlock sat, for a long time, unmoving except for his eyes, which followed his thoughts around as they tried to organise themselves inside his mind. Then he seemed to come out of his trance. He opened the bag, looked inside and took out the memory stick. He got up and went to the door. When he opened it, the man standing outside said,

'Are you ready to go, sir?'

'No,' he snapped. 'Bring me my laptop. And more tea.' He shut the door and walked over to the window where he stood and stared outside but saw nothing. The door opened again and the tea and the lap top were delivered. He gestured for them to be put on the coffee table, then waved the bearers away.

'I don't want to be disturbed,' he said, curtly. He sat down, booted up the laptop, plugged in the memory stick and began to scroll through the contents.

ooOoo

Molly scurried through the airport, oblivious to the many travellers and airport staff milling around in the huge concourse. She found the exit, broke through the door into fresh air and leaned against a barrier, gasping for breath. As she stood, trying to regain some semblance of composure, a sleek, shiny, black shape eased alongside her and the chauffeur who had brought her here jumped out of the car, coming round to open the rear passenger door.

Molly slipped inside, gratefully, and leaned her head back against the leather upholstery. All of her nightmares had come true. She was consumed with panic, apprehension and regret. What had just happened? Had she been too abrupt? Could she have broken the news more gently? What was he thinking now? Would he ever forgive her?

'Oh, god! What have I done?' she wailed, in despair.

ooOoo

Four hours later, Sherlock opened the door to the airport lounge and said to the man, still standing outside,

'Take me to my brother.'

ooOoo


	10. Life After Death Chapter Ten

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Three – Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter Three**

Molly spent the next two days in utter torment. She heard nothing from Sherlock or Mycroft, so could neither confirm nor deny that she had handled the whole disclosure thing very badly in deed. She went over the encounter again and again in her head, trying to see where she went wrong, trying to discern the point at which she blew it. Every time she thought about it – which was all the time - waves of nausea washed over her. It was like being pregnant again.

On the Friday evening, with William asleep in his bed, Molly lay on the sofa in her sitting room, nursing a glass of red wine, wishing the phone would ring but dreading what news it might bring. In answer to her prayer, her mobile rang. It was the 'Spitfire Prelude and Fugue', the signature tune ring tone she had allotted to Mycroft. She pressed 'Answer' and held the phone to her ear.

'Ok, Mycroft, break it to me gently. How much does he hate me?' she blurted out. There was a long pause then a voice that was definitely not Mycroft's said,

'Why would I hate you?'

'Oh, God, Sherlock, it's you.'

She couldn't think what else to say so there was another long silence. He broke it again.

'Molly, please, may I come and see you?'

'Of course,' she said. 'When?'

'Now. I'm just round the corner.' He shut off the connection.

Molly was instantly thrown into a panic. She jumped up, nearly spilling her wine, and looked round in alarm, unsure exactly what she was looking for. Then the entry phone buzzed. She rushed to her front door, saw Sherlock's face on the security screen and gave a squeak of alarm. She pressed the lock release on the outer door and opened the internal door to let him in. He walked straight through to the sitting room and stood in the archway, looking round.

'Bit more up-market than your last place,' he quipped. Molly looked at the floor.

'Mycroft has been very kind,' she replied, feeling deeply embarrassed, recalling – ironically – her mother's comments about girls getting pregnant and expecting flats and money. She had not made that connection until that moment and it stung.

Sherlock was oblivious, as ever, to the effect of his words. He removed his coat and she took it from him and hung it in the hall, using the time to remind herself that he did not mean to be hurtful. Returning to the sitting room, she asked him if he would like a drink. He picked up her wine glass, from the coffee table, swirled it around, inhaling the bouquet and replied that one of those would be fine. Molly invited him to sit down, and went to pour him a drink.

This felt so awkward. Her self-confidence had vanished at a stroke.

They settled in their seats, Molly in the arm chair, sipped at her wine, placed her glass on the coffee table and waited for him to open the batting. He warmed his wine between his hands, staring into space, organising his thoughts. Then he began.

'Molly, I have never given any considered the idea of being a father. It just hasn't registered on my radar which is why when you told me about the baby, I couldn't even process the information. I apologise for my reaction. I understand it must have hurt you a great deal.'

She looked at her hands and tried not to give even a hint of how true this was.

He went on.

'I really have no idea what sort of a father I would make,' he said, opening his hands in supplication. 'I don't have any appropriate role models to even begin to make a comparison. If truth be told, I'm not really father material. And you have done such a brilliant job, so far, of bringing up our son' (she almost wept on hearing him say those words) 'that I am really not sure what useful contribution I could even bring to the table.'

His gaze was averted, studiously avoiding eye contact.

'I'm selfish, arrogant, demanding, obsessive and perseverant, none of which are traits one would generally look for in a parent. I'm not a nice person, not good to be around. When I'm on a case, you know what I'm like, I get completely OCD and everything else goes out of the window.'

Molly registered that all too familiar tightening of the band around her chest as she anticipated the rejection that his next words would deliver. She felt the tears begin to sting her eyes and a sob start to rise from her diaphragm. She fought to control herself, to suppress these feelings before they overcame her. He was talking again.

'But, Molly, I do want to try.'

He looked over at her and she saw the uncertainty in his eyes and could contain herself no longer. The tears overflowed, the sob erupted and Molly sat and shook for the longest time. Sherlock was paralysed by his own sense of inadequacy so was slow in responding but eventually moved closer and took her hand.

'You are the bravest person I know, Molly Hooper. I owe you so much that I can never repay.'

She gripped his hand tight and scrubbed the tears from her face, taking some deep breaths.

'You don't owe me anything, Sherlock. You've given me the most precious thing I could ever have. You gave me William.'

She managed a feeble smile, released his hand and picked up her wine, taking a big gulp.

'Would you like to see him?' she said.

Fear and trepidation gripped him again but he swallowed and nodded his head. Molly stood up and gestured for him to follow, leading him down the corridor off the sitting room and stopping at the third door. She turned to him and held a finger to her lips then gently pushed open the door.

The light from the corridor cast a weak illumination on the small mound in the single bed. Sherlock stepped through the doorway, into the room and stopped by the side of the bed, looking down at the sleeping child. His hands went up to his face as he stood, transfixed. Molly had followed him in but stood to one side so as not to intrude on his moment. After an age of standing and staring, he turned to her and whispered,

'Can I touch him?'

Molly nodded, but stepped forward, in case William awoke and was startled by this unexpected visitor. Sherlock went down on one knee and reached out, tentatively, lightly touching his son's cheek with the very tips of his fingers. He pushed a thick curl of dark hair off William's forehead and stroked the child's head.

William stirred. He turned his head toward his father's hand, stretching his arms and legs, and his eyes flickered open. Sherlock froze, feeling suddenly exposed, as if he'd been caught in the act of some nefarious deed, but William just rolled over, away from the light and settled back into his dream. Sherlock breathed again. He stood up, leaned over and dropped a gentle kiss on the top of his child's head, then turned and slipped out of the room. Molly followed, closing the door behind them.

ooOoo

Back in the sitting room, Sherlock was feeling shaky. He had just confronted his own immortality, his own posterity. He coped with this in the only way he knew. He demanded data.

Sherlock and Molly drank wine and talked long into the night. He wanted to know every detail of how Molly had managed, being a single mother. Molly talked warmly about all the support Mycroft had given. She described the day he came to the hospital and discovered his inner uncle. When she came to the part about putting William's name down for a school, Sherlock rolled his eyes. He assured her that, although Mycroft really was into that 'old school tie' stuff, he could not care less. He had not been particularly happy at Harrow but he would not have been happy anywhere. That was just who he was.

She told him about Maria and her part in 'Project Pregnancy' and about the 'A.I' subterfuge. Sherlock was in awe of how Molly had coped with the labour, admitting to being moved to tears, watching the video. He thanked her for documenting William's life. He was thrilled at her choice of god-parents and impressed with her manipulation of the gestation time, to allay John's suspicions.

They talked about how and when he would reveal himself to his other friends and suggested that Molly invite everyone to 221B Baker Street for the dénouement, the next Saturday, after letting Mrs Hudson in on the secret and enlisting her support.

He explained he would be busy for the next week, 'being debriefed' by his brother's minions – essential, Mycroft insisted, after such an extended period in deep cover - to make sure he was 'safe to let out on the streets, again', so she wouldn't be able to speak him, directly. But if she needed to contact him urgently, she should do so through Mycroft.

He revealed that he had already under-gone two days of interrogation and was supposed to be under 'house arrest' at the family home, for the duration, but had managed to outwit the Secret Service 'morons', who were supposed to be guarding him, and escape to come and see her.

No change there, then, she thought.

Sherlock looked at his watch and said,

'I should be going.'

It was very late and he figured that William was probably an early riser.

'You can stay, if you like,' said Molly. 'We have a guest room,' she added.

'Better not,' he replied. 'I have Mycroft's phone. He's probably suffering withdrawal symptoms, even as we speak.'

'I expect he's traced you and has the building surrounded,' she giggled.

He paused and then said,

'Once this debrief is over and everyone who matters knows I'm not dead after all, I'd like to meet William properly. I can't really do it before,'

He got up, collected his coat and stopped by the front door. Turning back, he gave her a warm hug.

'Thank you, Molly Hooper, for everything,' he said, kissed her on the cheek and left.

Molly watched him, in the security monitor, as he stepped through the main front door and was met on the step by a 'Mycroft Man', and escorted to a waiting car. At least he didn't have to look for a cab.

ooOoo

As Molly got ready for bed, she reflected on the evening's developments. She was amazed at how easily they had talked together and realised that this was, in fact, the first proper conversation they had ever had. The dynamic between them had changed. She recognised what the difference was. She was no longer in awe of him and he had a new-found respect for her. Now, they were equals.

ooOoo


	11. Life After Death Chapter Eleven

**Part Three – Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter Four**

The following Tuesday afternoon, Molly took the Metropolitan Line to Baker Street tube station and walked along the road to number 221. She rang the bell for 221A and waited for Mrs Hudson to make her way to the door. The two women greeted one another with hugs and air kisses, and Mrs H led the way through the hall to her own front door, at the rear of the house. As Molly passed the staircase, up to 221B, she glanced upwards, as she always did, and felt the palpable emptiness of the flat above. It felt haunted, by a very powerful ghost.

Molly sat down at the table, in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, whilst the hostess put on the kettle to make tea.

'Where's little William, then?' she asked.

'Oh, he's at the nursery,' Molly replied. 'I left him there this morning, as usual. He likes his routine, doesn't take kindly to sudden changes of plan, and I was working this morning so it seemed the sensible thing to do. And it gives us more chance to talk. I need to tell you something and to ask you a huge favour,' Molly looked, meaningfully, at her companion.

'Right then,' said the hostess, 'better get this tea on and then you can tell me what's what.'

When the tea pot was on the trivet in the middle of the table and the two friends each had a steaming cup, Molly spilled the beans.

'Mrs Hudson, I have to tell you that…Sherlock is not dead.' She looked at the lady opposite and waited for her to react.

'I thought not,' Mrs H replied, bluntly.

She realised she had surprised Molly.

'I did believe it at first, even when Mycroft told me to leave all Sherlock's things in the flat. I just thought he couldn't cope with dealing with them straight away – too painful, you know. Then, when it went on and he was still paying the rent, I started to wonder. But it was when you told us about Sherlock being William's dad, that's when the penny dropt,' she said.

'But how?' asked Molly.

'When John and Mary were bringing me back home, John told us what you told him about William being two weeks late. Now, I know John is a doctor and everything, but he's not had much to do with babies so he probably didn't think anything of it. But I've seen babies who've been born two weeks late and they look terrible. They look like they've been in the bath too long. Their skin is all wrinkly and it flakes off and, quite often, their hair falls out, too. It grows back, of course. Believe me, they don't look all smooth and bonny like little William did, so I knew that something wasn't right.'

She concluded her explanation and sat back, giving Molly a knowing look. Molly was impressed.

'So, from that, you worked out that Sherlock was not dead?' Molly smiled, shaking her head in awe.

'Well, I figured if he _was_ dead he certainly hadn't died when we thought he did - the day he jumped off the hospital roof. But then time went by and Mycroft kept coming over, now and again, so one day I asked him if he would like _me_ to sort out Sherlock's things – y'know, pack them up, take them to the charity shop – but, no! He was adamant that everything stay as it was.

After a year of this, I knew that the only possible reason could be that Sherlock would, one day, be coming back. So, that's when I started taking proper care of the place. I lit the fire on cold days, changed the bed linen every week, made sure there was always fresh milk in the fridge and bread in the bread bin, kept it nice and clean.'

'Did Mycroft know you were doing this?' Molly asked.

'Oh, yes, I'm sure he noticed but he never said a word.'

'So do you think he knows that you know Sherlock is alive?

'I'm sure he does but he knows I would never say anything. You see, if Sherlock wanted people to think he was dead, he must have had a darned good reason and that's good enough for me,' she concluded.

'Mrs Hudson, you are amazing! You worked all that out!' Molly was impressed.

'Look, dear, you know what they say about how people start to look like their dogs? Well, I suppose if you hang around Sherlock Holmes for long enough, some of him rubs off on you, if you know what I mean.'

'I think I do,' said Molly with a smile.

'Alright, then, that's the explanations over with. Now, what's this huge favour you want to ask me?' urged Mrs H.

'I have to tell John and Greg Lestrade that Sherlock is alive and that he's back. And I would really appreciate your help.'

Mrs Hudson pursed her lips, giving this request due consideration, then put her hands flat on the table and pushed herself up from her chair.

'Right,' she said, 'I'd better put the kettle back on. This is definitely a two-pot problem!'

ooOoo

With the second pot of tea steeping on the trivet, and the biscuit tin open between the two women, they got down to business. Molly explained her idea of gathering them all at 221B. Mrs Hudson looked rather dubious.

'That might be difficult,' she said. 'You know, when Sherlock jumped, John took it very bad. I've never seen a man take on so. He blamed himself, you see. He blamed himself for leaving him alone, when he thought I was hurt, and then for not being able to talk him down, when he was up on the roof.

I used to hear him, upstairs in the night. Breaking his heart, he was. And I couldn't go up to him. I mean, a man has his pride, hasn't he? He doesn't want a woman seeing him in that state. No, he does not. So, to be honest, I was grateful when he moved out, because I couldn't bear to listen to him and not be able to do anything about it. He's not been back inside this house since the day he left. I don't think you'll get him back in here, not even in my flat. You definitely won't get him to go upstairs.'

Molly hadn't even considered this possibility. She thought they had the perfect race plan, but now the horse had fallen at the first hurdle. She considered the matter for a moment or two then asked Mrs Hudson if she had any ideas.

'We need somewhere private but neutral. Also, we need to be prepared for John to bolt. He is the bolting sort. Whenever him and Sherlock used to have arguments – and, believe me, they had more than a few – John would always walk out. It was his safety valve, which was lucky, really, because otherwise I think they would have come to blows! Anyway, he would go out and have a walk around, Sherlock would sulk for a while and then get into some experiment or other so that, by the time John came back, the whole thing was forgotten and they'd be fine and dandy again.'

Molly was intrigued by this rare insight into the relationship between these two men. She could see that Mrs Hudson was quite right in her analysis of the situation but where to find a private but neutral venue, with minimal opportunities to bolt?

'What do you mean by neutral?' Molly asked.

'Well, this meeting is going to be very hard for John, very upsetting. He will probably associate it with the place where it happens for ever, so he probably won't ever want to go back there again. So it needs to be somewhere he is unlikely to need to go to again, anyway.'

Molly was astonished at the depth of understanding Mrs Hudson had of the inner workings of John's mind. Sherlock had been so right about her. There was much more to Mrs H than met the eye.

Over the next half hour, the two women worked out the 'how', the 'who' and the 'when' of the general plan for the big reveal but, try as they might, they could not come up with a venue to fit the bill. The 'where' would have to wait until inspiration struck. However, they were pretty proud of their afternoon's work and celebrated with a small sherry, before Molly had to leave to collect William from the crèche.

ooOoo

Later that evening, Molly was in the kitchen, cooking supper as usual, when her mobile rang with Mycroft's theme. She picked up the phone and asked,

'Which one of you is it this time?'

'Not the kleptomaniac escapologist,' Mycroft's voice remarked, dryly. 'Hello, Molly. I was wondering whether it might be convenient for me to call on you and William.'

'When have you ever needed permission to come and see us?' Molly asked.

'Well, circumstances have altered now, have they not,' he replied.

'Mycroft, just because Sherlock is back doesn't mean you're not William's uncle. I wondered why we hadn't seen you for more than a week. William's been asking where you are. Get your sorry arse over here, Mycroft Holmes!' she exclaimed and shut off the phone.

Within minutes, the entry phone sounded and she buzzed Mycroft in. He came through to the sitting room and was immediately set upon by William. He swung the little chap up into the air and plonked him on his shoulders, then began cantering round the sitting room and kitchen, to squeals of delight from his favourite – in deed his only – nephew. Later, after supper and bath time, William was adamant that 'Uncle Mytoff' should read his bedtime story and he chose 'Whistle for Willy', because he loved the way Mycroft did all the funny accents.

Once William was settled for the night, Mycroft returned to the sitting room and was handed a large glass of Merlot by Molly.

'Your reward for services above and beyond,' she informed him. 'I'm really glad you've come this evening. I need your advice.'

Mycroft listened intently as Molly related the details of the conversation she had had with Mrs Hudson, that afternoon

'So the problem I have is where could this meeting take place? Any ideas would be really appreciated.'

Mycroft sipped his wine, mulling over the problem and, with a little shrug, declared,

'Well, it will have to be my house, in Hertfordshire.'

Molly didn't understand.

'It fits all the criteria,' Mycroft explained. 'It's secure – very secure – set in several hundred acres of parkland. If John 'bolts', as Mrs Hudson so quaintly puts it, he can't go far and we'll be able to keep tabs on him. It's private, of course, and it's neutral – John need never set foot in there again. Perfect. Now, when were you thinking of holding this gathering?'

Molly should not have been so astounded at how quickly Mycroft had assimilated all the facts and come up with the perfect solution. After all, wasn't that what he did best?

'I was thinking this Saturday. Sherlock will have finished his debriefing so he could even, perhaps, be the surprise guest, once everyone has been brought up to speed,' she suggested. To her disappointment, Mycroft did not seem so optimistic.

'I wouldn't bank on Sherlock having completed his debriefing by Saturday,' he warned. 'Being in 'deep cover' is the most intense form of combat. One must completely subvert one's personality, adopt another persona and inhabit it completely, so one becomes that person, like a form of voluntary schizophrenia. It's not an easy task to divest one's mind of such a second self but it's essential to utterly expunge the alter ego. Otherwise, it might reappear when one is least expecting it –with devastating consequences.'

Mycroft saw the concern in Molly's face and reached for her hand to squeeze it.

'Sherlock knew the risks when he undertook this mission. He knew that Moriarty's network must be completely destroyed, if his friends were ever to be truly safe again, and he knew he was the best man for the job. But he is also fully committed to this process. He's surprised me at the level of co-operation he's shown'

'I don't count his disappearing act the other night. I understand why he had to come and see you. It was necessary. He knew he couldn't engage fully with the debriefing when he had this other matter taking his attention from the task. He was much more on task after he spoke to you.'

Mycroft paused for thought and then went on.

'I would strongly advise him against jumping out of a cupboard, right after you drop the bomb. I think John, in particular, will need time to come to terms with the revelations, don't you?'

Molly felt so stupid. She had learned a lot in the last few minutes that had never crossed her mind before. How could she have imagined that it would all be so easy? The term 'debriefing' sounded so innocuous. She shuddered at the thought of the terrible ordeal Sherlock was enduring, right now, not to mention the last three years. Would this nightmare ever end? She wiped her hand across her forehead and sighed deeply.

'Don't punish yourself, Molly,' Mycroft scolded gently. 'This sort of situation is far beyond the scope of most people's experience, thank goodness! The reason why people like me and my brother do the things we do is so that ordinary people don't have to even think about them. It's called the natural order.'

Molly gave him a weak smile. She marvelled at how her opinion of Mycroft had changed so radically, once she really came to know him. He was actually a very thoughtful and caring man, but he could switch those feelings off in an instant, when necessary, and be as cold and ruthless as the task demanded. She was very glad he was now her friend.

'Right,' Mycroft declared, 'back to the business in hand. I will summon both John and Lestrade to my house on Saturday afternoon. I will not give a reason, so they are more likely to come – out of a sheer curiosity. And, once they're there, you and Mrs Hudson will carry out your mission and we will take it as it comes. If it means having to send the dogs out after John, so be it. And, whilst you are attending to _your_ task, I rather hope you'll accept _my_ offer to mind young William.'

'I'm sure William will be very happy with that arrangement,' Molly laughed.

ooOoo


	12. Life After Death Chapter Twelve

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Three - Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter Five**

John rolled out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown and padded through from the bedroom to the bathroom. He used the toilet and then, whilst washing his hands, scrutinised his five o'clock shadow in the bathroom mirror. He glanced at his watch and was amused to see that it was, indeed, five o'clock. He was on night shifts this week, rolling home in the cold light of dawn, finding Mary up and about, dressed in her smart, black, court room suit, grabbing a quick hug and a kiss as she left for work. By the time she got home, he would – in all probability – be gone, off to work already, so that would be all they would see of one another on such a day. But the advantage of pulling nights was that one only had to work four nights out of seven, which meant he would be off duty for the weekend, this week.

He loved his weekends off with Mary, especially Sundays. They would wake at their leisure, often start the day with a good romp between the sheets and then go out for breakfast to the little 'skanky caff', as he liked to call it – which was not skanky at all, actually, but clean, cheap, very cheerful and served all-day breakfasts, even on a Sunday. Later, they would take a walk in one of the Royal parks or on the Heath, stop in a pub for a pint on the way home and then curl up in front of the telly for the evening. He could not think of a better way to spend his Sundays or a better person with whom to spend them. Meeting Mary really had been the best thing that ever happened to him.

It was at this point in his reveries that Sherlock usually jumped out on his thoughts and gave him a metaphorical punch in the gut. It was at this point that his inner voice reminded him that Mary was only the second best thing that had ever happened to him – albeit a very close second – but nothing and no one would ever top what he had had with Sherlock Holmes. They really had been two halves of the same whole, each of them rather cast adrift until they were brought together by that chance meeting with John's old friend from student days, Mike Stamford.

The three years that John had spent chasing criminals round London with Sherlock had truly been the most exciting, fulfilling, challenging, fun, amusing, insane….the adjectives could go on for ever, he thought to himself. And even now, three years on, there was not a single day that he did not miss his friend so badly that it was a physical pain, in the core of his being. These thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant, as he walked to the kitchen to make some breakfast, which was actually supper, since it was almost evening.

There was post on the kitchen table, left by Mary, this morning. He shuffled the envelopes like a pack of cards. They were bills mostly, or rather 'for your information only' letters, since they paid all their utilities by monthly direct debit, but one of them wasn't a bill. It was a plain manila envelope, addressed in a neat copperplate hand. It was Mycroft Holmes' hand writing. Feeling curious as to why Sherlock's brother should be writing to him, after all this time, he opened the letter and took out the hand written note from inside.

It read,

'Dear John

I would very much like for you to attend a meeting at my home in Hertfordshire on Saturday next at two o'clock in the afternoon. I believe that it would be greatly to your advantage if you were to accept this invitation.

I look forward to your company at the appointed time.

Kind regards

Mycroft Holmes'

John stared at the letter for a number of minutes and reread it several times. What on earth was Mycroft up to, he wondered. Did he have plans for Saturday? No, nothing specific. Was Mary included in the invitation? No, it would appear not. How rude! But, hey, this was Mycroft bloody Holmes we were talking about so, what's new? He put the letter back in the envelope and left it on the table. He had to get ready for work now or he would be late, which he was a complete no-no..

As he showered, shaved and dressed, he wracked his brains to try and come up with a reason why his presence might be required at Holmes Mansions, or whatever the family seat was called, but he repeatedly drew a blank. Suddenly, he could not wait for Saturday, to find out what this was all about.

Unbeknown to John, Greg Lestrade was having almost the identical conversation with himself, over a cup of builder's tea in his office. He could not wait for Saturday either.

ooOoo

Molly and Mrs Hudson sat in the summer drawing room in the Holmes' country residence, sipping the tea provided by Mycroft's staff. They had their battle plan prepared and the time was fast approaching when they would have to put it to the ultimate test.

First to arrive was John Watson, shown into the room by Mycroft's butler cum valet, Andrew.

'Hello, ladies!' he greeted them warmly. 'So you've been summoned by Lord Snooty, too. Who else is coming?' John was almost bursting with curiosity.

'We're just waiting for Greg,' replied Molly, feeling so guilty for the continued deception but relieved that soon everything would be revealed. 'Have some tea, John.'

'Oh, right. What's that then, Lap sang Choo song, or what?' he joked, accepting a cup of Orange Pekoe. 'So, this is where Sherlock and Mycroft grew up. No wonder they turned out the way they did. Just being here makes me want to tug my forelock and walk out of the room backwards.'

John sat down on a Regency sofa and they all chatted away until the door opened to admit Greg Lestrade.

'Well, I see the gang's all here,' the DI greeted them all, with a cheeky grin.

The butler approached Molly and asked, with deference,

'Is there anything else you require, madam?'

'Could we have some more tea, please Andrew?' she asked. He bowed his head in acquiescence and took the tea tray away, to be replaced with a fresh one, in a matter of minutes. As Mrs Hudson served them all with second cups of the hot brew, Molly began with her prepared opening lines.

'Well, hello, everyone. I'm really grateful to you for coming all the way out here, today. Mycroft will be joining us later but, before then, I have some things I need to talk to you about.'

There was something in her bearing and tone of voice that made them all sit up and take notice. The atmosphere in the room changed, immediately, as all the other occupants turned their eyes on Molly, with curiosity.

She ploughed on.

'I've already told you what happened the night before Sherlock jumped off the roof of St. Bart's but I still haven't told you everything. There's a lot that you don't know, not because I didn't want to tell you but because I wasn't allowed. I was sworn to secrecy.'

Molly looked around at her audience. Mrs Hudson looked expectant and Greg intrigued but John looked very emotional already. She quailed as she looked into his eyes, which bored into hers. There was hurt and suspicion in that glare and she had barely begun.

'But the need for secrecy is gone, now, so I can tell you everything. And I'm not going to beat about the bush. I'm just going to give it to you straight.'

She took a deep, steadying breath, as her heart pounded in her ears and her palms felt slick with sweat.

'The reason why Sherlock jumped off the roof is because Moriarty had set contract killers on all three of you, with instructions that, if Sherlock did not die that day, you three would. Moriarty told him that there was no way the hit men could be called off and then he killed himself – shot himself in the head – to make it impossible for the assassins instructions to be countermanded…'

'Hold on, hold on, hold on…'John interrupted. 'I'm sorry. I'm having trouble getting my head around this. Are you saying that Sherlock died to save all of us?'

'No, John. I'm not saying that, exactly. I'm saying that Sherlock _jumped_ to save all of you. But he didn't die. He's alive.'

'What?!' Lestrade gasped. 'He's alive?'

'NO!' shouted John, jumping to his feet. 'He died. I saw him. He jumped off the roof, he hit the ground, there was blood everywhere. I took his pulse – there was no pulse. He was fucking dead! Why are you saying this?'

'John, I know this is hardest for you but I can explain everything,' Molly entreated him.

'Well, get on with it then!' John snapped. Both Greg Lestrade and Mrs Hudson moved to sit beside John and placed soothing hands on his arms but he shrugged them off.

'Leave me alone, I'm not a child,' he snarled.

Molly went on,

'When Sherlock came to see me, the night before, he told me he was going to have to die. He didn't know then about the contracts on you three but he knew that Moriarty would settle for nothing less than his death so, rather than wait for Moriarty to kill him, he had to do it himself – or rather find a way to fake it that would convince everyone, especially the hit men, that he really was dead. He hatched a plan – a very complex plan, which I'm not going to go into now, but the key to its success was you, John.' She looked at the doctor, with eyes that pleaded for his patience and understanding.

'I'm sorry, Molly, but I'm just not getting this. How could I be so important when I didn't even know anything about it,' John countered.

Molly knew this next part would be the hardest of all to say and harder still to hear. She was about to stab John Watson in the heart. She steeled herself in anticipation of his reaction.

'The mechanics of the hoax were easy enough to achieve, easy for Sherlock, anyway, but in order for everyone to believe it, he needed a star witness, an unimpeachable one. That had to be you, John. You had to believe he was dead in order to convince everyone else.'

John's head was in turmoil. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, couldn't take it in. He felt short of breath, like a panic attack or something. He stood up but then couldn't move so sat back down. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. He was in shock.

Mrs Hudson put something into his hand and said,

'Drink this, John,' so he did. It was tea – sweet tea. He didn't like sweet tea but he drank it anyway. The sugar seemed to help. His head began to clear, his heart rate to slow and he could breathe again. Mrs Hudson was holding his hand and patting his arm. He eased his hand away from her and said,

'I'm OK, I'm fine, thank you,' then he looked back at Molly and said, 'Let me get this straight. He needed me to witness his death…? Oh, my god! Of course he did!'

The penny was dropping, at last. All the pieces of the puzzle were clicking into place. John stood up, with a look of incredulity on his face and walked over to the fire place, putting his hands on the marble mantle and leaning hard, shaking his head.

'He said that! He said, _Stay where you are. Keep your eyes fixed on me. Will you do this for me?_ He was telling me what he wanted me to do. He _used_ me. He bloody used me.'

'He had to, John, it was the only way. He didn't want to and it hurt him so much to have to do it but he had no choice.' Molly tried to placate him

'Hurt him? Did it? Did it really? Well, good! I'm fucking glad it did! So where the hell is he? Where's he been these last three years? What the fuck is going on, here?'

'He's been in a deep cover operation to dismantle Moriarty's organisation, worldwide. Until every last one of his operatives had been neutralised, the contracts on you three were still potentially active. Up until two weeks ago, you three were still at risk of being assassinated, if anyone were to discover that Sherlock was alive.'

Greg Lestrade, who had been sitting with his mouth open for most of the last few minutes, was suddenly on his feet.

'Just a minute! Are you saying that I have had a price on my head for the last three years and no one thought to tell me?' he bellowed.

'You couldn't know,' Molly declared. 'To all intents and purposes, Sherlock was dead so the contracts were off. To tell you about the contracts, you would have to know that Sherlock was not dead and that would have carried the risk of reactivating the contracts. Do you understand? It was a 'Catch 22' situation.'

'So where is Sherlock now?' John asked. He seemed suddenly distracted, thoughtful, distant.

'He's undergoing debriefing, has been for the last week and a half,' Molly explained.

John put his hand to his brow. Molly's last two statements had struck a chord with him. 'Deep cover' and 'debriefing' were two terms that held more meaning for John, with his military back ground, than for either Greg or Mrs H.

'And for how much longer?' he asked.

'You know how it works, John. As long as it takes,' she replied.

'Oh, my God,' was all John could say, as he walked back to the sofa and sat down again.

'But what about William?' asked Greg. 'Did Sherlock know you were pregnant when he went away?'

'No, he knew nothing about William until he came back to the UK. Mycroft and I agreed that it would be too risky to tell him while he was involved in the operation. It would have made him vulnerable. I told him about William last week.'

John was still trying to assimilate all the information – there was just so much to take in.

'So have they met yet, him and the boy?' Greg asked the question on everyone's lips.

'He's seen him, asleep, but they haven't really met. He wanted to get the debriefing over with first.'

Now John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson all seemed lost in their own thoughts, for a moment. Everything that had happened in the last three years now needed to be viewed in light of this new information. There was a lot to think about.

Mrs Hudson looked at Molly and smiled, reassuringly. Well, she had been right about one thing, at least. Sherlock did have a very good reason to fake his own death and disappear for three years. He had done it to save her and John and Greg. What a good friend he had been to them all. What a huge sacrifice he had made for them. She hoped that the two men appreciated this as well as she did.

When Mycroft came into the room, a few moments later, he was both surprised and impressed with how calm everyone seemed. No one was cursing or shouting and no one had 'bolted', either. He raised an eyebrow at Molly, giving silent congratulations on a mission well accomplished. But John had lots of questions for Mycroft, so Molly took the opportunity to slip out of the room and go in search of William.

She found him in the kitchen with the cook, sitting at the kitchen table with a biscuit and a glass of milk. She sat next to him and listened attentively whilst he told her about all the adventures that he had had with his uncle that afternoon, out in the wilderness of the Holmes' estate.

 _No more secrets_ , thought Molly. Well, just one – the true circumstances of William's conception. But there were some things their friends did not need to know. She felt an enormous weight lift from her shoulders. She had not even realised how tense she had been, until now. She heaved a huge sigh and relaxed – really relaxed – for the first time in over three years.

ooOoo

Much later, that evening, a sleek, black sedan came to a gentle halt outside John and Mary's building and John got out. He opened the front door to his flat and walked inside. Mary was sitting in her favourite chair, curled up with a book – a law book, but never the less a book. She looked up and smiled, asking,

'Well, what was it all about?'

John shook his head from side to side, trying to work out where to begin, then inspiration seemed to strike.

'You know that friend of mine I told you about, the one that died? Yes, well, he didn't.'

ooOoo

It was two more days before Molly heard from Sherlock. Mycroft had been right, as usual, and the debriefing process had taken longer than anticipated. When Molly answered Sherlock's phone call, she could hear in his voice evidence of what an ordeal it had been. He sounded very tired - weary, in fact - and a little light-headed but also relaxed. It would appear that his undercover alter ego had been well and truly expunged.

'I want to come and meet William but first I need to see John,' he told her. 'I think I owe it to him. I gather he took it hard, when you told him what I did.'

'Only to begin with,' Molly replied. 'I think it was the shock more than anything. Once he got his head round it all, he was pretty OK. Mycroft filled them in with all the details about the fake death and the covert operation. I left him to it. I'm just glad I don't have to lie any more. It's such hard work!'

'Yes,' he agreed. 'Tell me about it.'

'So when are you seeing John?' she asked.

'Tomorrow,' he said, 'He's coming to 221B Baker Street.'

'Oh, so you're back there now, are you?' Molly smiled as she spoke.

'Not yet,' he breathed, 'but I will be by tomorrow. I'm going home.'

ooOoo


	13. Life After Death Chapter Thirteen

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Three - Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter Six**

A black cab drew up outside 221 Baker Street and the tall slim figure in the long black coat stepped out, paid the cabbie and crossed the pavement to the front door, ringing the bell. After a short pause, the door was opened by a petite old lady in a patterned house dress.

'Sherlock!' she said and hugged him warmly. 'Welcome home. Your flat is just as you left it. I haven't moved a thing, just picked things up to clean under them then put them back in the exact same place. The fire's on, there's milk and bread in the fridge and I've made up your bed with fresh linen.'

'You spoil me, Mrs Hudson,' he chided her, affectionately. 'Remember, you're my landlady, not my housekeeper!'

'Yes,' she gave him an equally affectionate poke in the ribs, 'and don't you forget that, young man!'

They parted in the hallway and he mounted those familiar stairs with an over-powering sense of deja vue. Many times he had climbed those stairs before but never with so much emotion. It was very good to be home.

Mrs Hudson was true to her word. Everything was, as far as he could remember, exactly where he had left it, with the obvious exceptions of his last experiment and his late collection of body parts. The fridge was clean and empty except for a litre of fresh milk and a tub of spreadable butter, and the kitchen work tops were bare but for a loaf of bread. All his science equipment – Petrie dishes, retorts, test tubes, pipettes and the like, were put away in one of the kitchen cupboards. Only his microscope stood on the kitchen table, with a box of clean slides beside it.

Walking through to the sitting room, he noted his favourite chair, sitting opposite the one John always used, the bison skull, on the wall, with the head phones still in place, the human skull on the mantle and the pen knife lying next to it, waiting to secure some newly unread mail. He scanned the room, drinking in all its comfortable familiarity. Even the yellow-painted smiley face, its outline traced in bullet holes, still endured. What a treasure Mrs Hudson was. He could not imagine any other landlady would tolerate such behaviour from a tenant.

Moving through to his bedroom, he looked at the Periodic Table on the wall behind the door and the martial arts poster above his bed. His antique double bed was made up with white Egyptian cotton sheets, crisp and fresh from the laundry. He took off his coat, threw it over the bedroom chair, kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the mattress.

The sound of the doorbell roused him from a deep, dreamless sleep. He rolled over and sat up on the side of the bed, feeling groggy and disorientated, then the bell rang again and he remembered who was calling today. He ran down the stairs, calling to Mrs Hudson that he was on it, and opened the front door that led out to the street.

John and Sherlock stood, one each side of the threshold, looking at one another for the first time in three years and three months, both taking in the familiar features and also the changes that the intervening time had wrought in the other.

'Well, are you going to let me in or are we just going to stand here and stare at one another? John asked, in his typically sardonic way.

Sherlock pursed his lips in a half smile, stepped aside and beckoned John into the house. John walked into the hallway and stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. Sherlock closed the front door and stood behind his long lost friend, giving him space to complete whatever thought process was holding him in limbo. Eventually, John reached out and put his hand on the newel post of the stair rail. He walked up the stairs and Sherlock followed him.

At the top, on the landing, John walked straight into the sitting room whilst Sherlock turned left into the kitchen and put the kettle on, watching John through the double doors, as he walked around the sitting room in much the same way as he had done earlier. John completed his circuit and then came to rest opposite Sherlock, on the other side of the table. The two men looked at one another again. At last, John drew a sharp intake of breath and said,

'Well, that's two things I never, ever thought I would do again – set foot in 221B Baker Street and look at your ugly fucking face.' His voice cracked but he held up his hand to deter any overly-emotional reciprocation from the other man, even though he knew that none would be forthcoming.

"John," said Sherlock, in the rich baritone voice that John remembered so well, "I owe you a thousand apologies.'

'Too fucking right, you do, you sneaky bastard!' John snapped. 'Now make that bloody tea and come and tell me what the hell has been going on whilst I've been wasting my god-damned time, mourning your passing.'

With that, he turned, walked back into the sitting room and sat down in his favourite chair. Sherlock cracked a little smile and finished making the tea.

When Mrs Hudson came up the stairs, two hours later, carrying a tray of sandwiches and a coffee cream cake she had made especially for this happy occasion, she heard the two men laughing, hysterically. She smiled to herself. Her boys were back together again, each one not quite complete without the other. She put down her tray, on the kitchen table, and set about making a fresh pot of tea to serve to the Baker Street Boys.

Later still, after she heard the front door close behind John Watson, returning to his own flat and his wife, Mrs Hudson traced Sherlock's footsteps across her ceiling, heard his bedroom door close and the bedsprings creak. No pacing, no sobbing, no sadness at all. Things had changed and would never be quite the same again but Holmes and Watson were still a team and they would adapt to the new arrangement.

ooOoo

Molly looked out of the front window of her sitting room for the umpteenth time in as many minutes. She was flitting around the room, straightening cushions that were already straight, dusting invisible dust motes off pristine surfaces, sitting for a moment then up and off again, round the room, looking for things to do.

William was playing in his bedroom, building another Lego masterpiece, honing his skills of fine motor manipulation and cerebral creativity. He could occupy himself for hours like this, making hypotheses and testing them out with small, plastic bricks. Molly glanced out of the window again and caught a glimpse of a long, black coat as it swished through the gate way. Moments later, the entry phone buzzed. She went to the door, checked it was Sherlock's face in the security monitor and pressed the button to release the lock. Opening the front door of her flat, she let him in, gave him a quick peck on the cheek and patted his arm.

'Don't look so worried. He won't bite you,' she smiled.

'It's not so much the biting that I'm concerned about,' Sherlock replied. 'It's more the screaming and the running away.'

Molly gave a little laugh, took his coat and invited him into the sitting room.

'I think it would be best if you sat down,' she advised. 'You'll be more on his level. He knows you're coming and he knows who you are, remember. He's been kissing your photo ever since he was born. He may just need a minute to adjust to you being here in the flesh. Just let him do it in his own time.'

Molly patted his arm again and disappeared through the door which led to the bedrooms, as Sherlock sat down in the arm chair and tried to steady his racing heart. He heard Molly's voice, coming back toward the sitting room, and she stepped through the door, carrying his son, William, in the crook of her arm. She stood still, just inside the doorway and said,

'William, this is your daddy. He's come home, at last.'

Two pairs of almond eyes gazed at one another, two Cupid's bow mouths pursed, two sculpted faces remained impassive. Then William turned to look at his mother, reached out a small pointing finger toward the seated man and said

'Daddy?'

'Yes,' she said, 'That's your daddy. He's come to see you.'

William flapped his legs to indicate that he wanted to be put down so Molly stood him on the carpet. The two year old walked towards Sherlock but stopped beside the sofa and leaned on the arm, scrutinising his father's features then scanning over his shoulders, arms and legs, down to his feet, then back up to his face. Sherlock, for his part, sat quietly, watching his son gathering data. Having completed his visual survey, William stepped forward, cautiously, reached out a tentative hand and touched Sherlock's left knee. Immediately, a broad smile lit up the child's face and he threw himself at his father, shouting,

'Daddy!'

Sherlock scooped up the toddler onto his lap, his face split into a broad smile, as he hugged him clos. The little boy put one arm round his father's neck and held his free hand against Sherlock's cheek, as they gazed intently into each other's eyes.

'Yes, William, I'm your daddy,' Sherlock confirmed.

Molly excused herself to go to the kitchen and put on the kettle. She brushed a couple of stray tears from her cheeks and shook her head, chiding herself for being such a blubber. She had dreamed of this day for so long and it had not disappointed. She could only imagine how it must have felt for Sherlock to watch his son adopt the same strategies as he would himself when faced with a novel situation.

The first time Molly had noticed William 'scanning', she had convinced herself that she was imagining it but when it became an established facet of his behaviour, she had to recognise that the skill that set Sherlock Holmes apart from all other men had been somehow genetically passed on to his son. What was it that Sherlock used to say? Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever was left, however improbable, must be the truth?

So there it was. The evidence was irrefutable. If the almond eyes and the razor sharp cheek bones were not sufficient proof that this was indeed Sherlock's child, then no one could deny the boy displayed all the signs of being a fledgling detective. As Molly was pouring boiling water into the warmed tea pot, William appeared in the kitchen, dragging Sherlock by his hand.

'Go owside?' he asked, cocking his head on one side.

'Of course, darling, but put your wellies on. It's a bit damp out there,' Molly replied.

William picked up his little blue wellingtons, standing side by side on a piece of newspaper by the back door. He offered them up to Sherlock.

'He still needs a bit of help with getting dressed,' Molly explained. 'Shall I do it?' she asked.

'No,' Sherlock replied. 'In the parent stakes, I have a bit of catching up to do so I'd better start learning.'

He knelt down on the floor and sat William on his knees, folded the bottoms of his son's trousers round his ankles and pulled his socks up over them, to keep them in place. Then he pushed the little boy's feet into his wellington boots and lifted him back up to standing.

'Wow!' exclaimed Molly, 'that was pretty textbook for a first try. Have you been having secret parenting lessons?'

Sherlock smiled, a little embarrassed.

'No, but I did grow up in the country, remember, where wellingtons are de rigueur for ten months of every year. I always knew my privileged up-bringing would come in handy someday.' He gave her a knowing nod, opened the back door and followed William out into the garden.

When Molly came out a few minutes later, carrying a tray of tea things, which she placed on the wrought iron table that occupied centre stage on the paved patio, Sherlock and William were about half way down the garden, giving close attention to something in one of the shrubs in the perennial borders. As she watched them, she saw Sherlock reach into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and take out his folding magnifying glass. He held it in front of whatever it was they were looking at and then handed it to William, who continued to hold it next to the mystery object and peer through it, whilst Sherlock drew his attention to some detail which he felt was particularly interesting, relevant or crucial.

Molly smiled to herself. Sherlock had told her he did not know what he could bring to the parenting table. This was exactly what he could bring. She thought back to the times she had spent with her own dad, doing just this sort of thing. It filled her heart with joy to think that her boy would be able to look back on his early life and relish these memories of 'Days out with Dad'. At this moment in time, she felt that her world was complete. It could not get any better.

'Tea's ready!' she called, pouring tea into two cups and taking a glass of milk and a plate of biscuits off the tray. She sat and sipped her tea as she watched the two people she loved best in the world walk, hand in hand, up the garden towards her, so easy in one another's company.

ooOoo


	14. Life After Death Chapter Fourteen

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Three – Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter Seven**

Sherlock strolled into the Pathology Department, at St Bart's hospital, walked down the corridor, through the heavy fire doors and into Molly's lab. She was just putting her coat on and she waved to him from the other side of the room. He stood by the entrance, looking round the familiar environment, with its shelves of bottles containing coloured liquids.

He had often wondered what exactly all those coloured liquids were. They didn't look like any chemicals he knew and he had always suspected that they were just coloured water, put there to look nice – like a Damien Hurst art installation. Chemicals were usually stored in brown glass bottles, to prevent them reacting with the light. Definitely Damien Hurst, he concluded.

Molly was shutting down her computer terminal and shuffling some papers into a neat pile, prior to picking up her hand bag and calling 'goodbye' to the other pathologists in the lab. She crossed towards Sherlock, smiling, stood on tip toe to give him a quick peck on the cheek and then walked through the door, as he held it open for her. As the doors swung back together, the other staff in the lab exchanged meaningful looks and smirky smiles.

'It is so nice doing nine to five hours, now,' Molly exclaimed, as she and Sherlock stood waiting for the lift. 'No more Graveyard Shifts for me!'

'Ah, Molly, some of my happiest memories are of late nights spent in the lab with you,' Sherlock teased her.

She gave him a knowing look. She was completely immune to his flirting, nowadays, and, anyway, she knew he was only doing it to hide the fact that he was actually rather nervous. He was about to meet the staff at the hospital crèche. In order to be permitted to collect William, at any time, he had to be formally introduced as a 'named person'. Typically, he was dreading the ordeal. Molly could never quite understand how a person, who could face down the likes of Moriarty in a deserted swimming pool or bluff his way into a top security military research centre, could still find everyday social situations so daunting.

'Don't worry,' she reassured him. 'I'll hold your hand.'

'I sincerely hope not,' Sherlock bridled at the thought. 'People might talk.'

'People are already talking, you idiot,' she replied.

They reached the security gate in the perimeter fence and Molly pressed the call button.

'Smile for the camera,' she joked, as the receptionist buzzed them in. At the front desk, Molly introduced Sherlock as 'Mr Holmes, William's father'. The receptionist gave him a detailed visual examination, clearly liked what she saw and rewarded him with a searchlight smile, which made Sherlock quail.

He could never understand the effect he seemed to have on women, just by looking the way he did, and, although he was happy to exploit it in the course of an investigation, should the need arise, in his everyday life he found it quite disconcerting. He was not easy in the company of women. Consequently, the current circumstances felt akin to entering a lion's den.

Molly led Sherlock through the building to the 'Paddington Bear' room, pushed open the door and invited him in. William looked up from his place at the 'gathering table' and saw Molly. He was about to shout 'Mummy' when Sherlock walked in behind her. He jumped up from his chair and raced across to throw himself into his father's outstretched hands. Sherlock lifted him up above his head, as William waggled his arms and legs, chortling with glee at the sudden change of perspective. He had never seen this room from such a high vantage point.

Molly walked over to the table to introduce Sherlock to the nursery nurses, who ran the 'Paddington Bear' group. He would have happily hung back, by the door, playing with William, but Molly beckoned him over and she had that look in her eye that said 'disobey at your peril' so he joined her at the table.

The two young women rose from their seats in unison, and simpered at him – there really was no other word to describe what they did. He nodded at them and looked, longingly, towards the exit, willing this ordeal to end, but the ritual of the daily report had to be observed and William's coat and bag needed to be handed over which, unfortunately, involved standing in close proximity to one or the other of these young women and making small talk.

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock took the proffered coat and put William down on the floor to help him on with it, listened attentively to the account of William's day and then took possession of the back pack, which contained the essential change of clothes and some snack bars. Ritual over, Molly thanked the girls and said 'goodbye', then led the way back out of the crèche, collecting the buggy on the way.

Sherlock looked at the buggy with disdain.

'Does he really need that thing?' he asked.

'Well, it's quite a long walk home for his little legs,' Molly replied

'I can carry him, if he gets tired,' came the reply.

'You might be able to but he's too heavy for me,' Molly retorted. 'Sherlock, what is your problem with the buggy?'

'It's just not…..'

'Cool? Is that the problem? Is it not cool to be seen pushing a buggy?' she teased him

'Don't be ridiculous,' he exclaimed, 'that's not what I meant at all! It's just…oh, alright. But as soon as he turns three, the buggy goes, OK?'

'We'll see,' Molly deferred, diplomatically

'And if we are out together, you push,' he added, just to clarify his position. Molly dissolved into giggles, and Sherlock strode off, indignantly, carrying William, who smiled and waved at his mother, over Sherlock's shoulder.

Molly and Sherlock were still working out the logistics of co-parenting their son. They had decided on a schedule of gradually increasing involvement. To begin with, it was agreed that Sherlock would visit William at Molly's flat and they would go out for treats as a threesome. When Sherlock thought he was up to the task, he would take William out for walks and treats on his own but always have him back for supper time.

If Molly needed to go away for an overnight stay, to a pathology conference or some such thing, Sherlock would stay at her flat overnight to take care of William and, eventually, William would come and stay for overnights at Sherlock's flat in Baker Street. He planned to refurnish John's old room for William, so it would be like a second home. Being introduced to William's nursery was part of the plan. Now he would be able to collect William from the nursery himself, when the need arose.

Molly had been impressed with the enthusiasm with which Sherlock had embraced the task of learning to be a father and, for someone who claimed to have had no appropriate role models, he seemed to have a natural flair for fatherhood.

As with all things, he had his own inimitable style. He and William had quickly established a close affinity due, Molly felt, to their shared perspective on the world. William had so many of Sherlock's character traits, it was a bit scary. She sincerely hoped that he did not grow up to be as socially inept as his father, particularly where women were concerned, because she rather looked forward to being a grandmother someday.

Sherlock had a lot of time on his hands at the moment. Although his name had been cleared, with regard to the kidnap of the diplomat's children, the level of his involvement in the various investigations on which he had consulted for Met officers had caused something of a furore in the press, three years previously. Senior officers like Lestrade and Dimmock, who had used his skills most frequently, had been severely reprimanded for giving a 'civilian' access to confidential police files.

The newspapers had gone to town on the story of Sherlock's return from the dead and had raked up all the controversy that had surrounded his 'suicide'. Consequently, Lestrade and his fellow DI's were loath to use Sherlock on any cases, at the moment, though Greg assured him that this would change, eventually.

The irony was not lost on Sherlock. When had he ever read anything remotely enlightening in a police file? The traffic had almost always been one way, where intelligence was concerned. However, the fact remained that, apart from the bits and pieces that Mycroft asked him to help out with, he was reduced to spending his time investigating cold cases, some from hundreds of years ago, that he found on unsolved crime websites on the Internet. His success rate, unfortunately, was making him less than popular with the website managers, so he was blocked from an increasing number of sites.

It was tempting to fill the empty hours with William, but Sherlock knew this was unfair. The little boy had a good pattern to his daily life which needed to be preserved and Sherlock was very aware that there could come a time when he might disappear for days on end, on a case, so he had to ration his contact time with his son. It was a fine balancing act but he and Molly were working on getting the balance right.

This particular evening, having collected William from the crèche, they took the ten minute walk back to Molly's flat, for a quiet night in. Sherlock and William watched a wild life documentary, about soldier ants in the Amazon jungle, while Molly cooked supper, after which, Sherlock was on bath and bedtime duty.

It was agreed between them that Sherlock would come over two evenings a week while he was still unemployed, and take William out on his own on Saturdays. Sundays were to be flexible but a 'family' outing was fast becoming norm. This coming Sunday, they were meeting John and Mary for a pub lunch.

Sherlock had only met Mary a couple of times and he still felt awkward in her company but Molly put that down to a combination of his innate gaucheness around women and his subconscious perception of her as an interloper. He had never been able to tolerate any of John's previous girlfriends so why should a wife be an exception? Molly had explained all this to Mary and advised her not to take it personally. John, for his part, had put a blanket ban on Sherlock deducing Mary and threatened that, if he caught him 'scanning' her, he would not answer for the consequences. Sherlock had been warned.

After putting William to bed and reading him the story of his choice, Sherlock returned to the sitting room and accepted a glass of wine from Molly.

'He loves it when you read him stories,' she commented. 'I think it's your deep voice. It just makes the words sound so much more interesting. I sound like a duck quacking when I read to him.'

Sherlock stared at her, shaking his head.

'Don't put yourself down,' he said. 'It makes you sound like the old Molly and I think we both know she never really existed – only in my head.'

Molly looked at him, with curiosity.

'Where did that come from?' she asked. He turned towards her from his seat on the sofa. His face was strangely intense and deadly serious.

'Molly, how did you ever put up with me, for all those years, when I was being such an arse?'

She looked down for a moment then back at him.

'I knew you didn't really mean it,' she replied.

'Oh, but I did!' he insisted. 'I really did! I thought about this a lot, after that last night, before I went away.'

Molly was surprised. They had never mentioned that night – not specifically. Even though William was the rather unavoidable consequence of what happened between them, neither of them had ever referred to it directly. It was the elephant in the room. Now Sherlock had broached the subject, Pandora's Box was open.

She wasn't sure where this conversation was going and she experienced the 'fight or flight' response. Her mouth felt dry, her stomach was suddenly full of butterflies, her head felt light and her cheeks drained of colour. She froze in her chair, waiting for Sherlock to make the next move. He seemed, as usual, blissfully unaware of the effect his words were having.

'I always knew you were attracted to me but every woman I've ever met seems to be attracted to me.'

Had this been any other man speaking, this would have come across as crass arrogance and complete narcissism. But Molly knew he was simply stating the facts as he saw them.

'To me, your feelings toward me were just an inconvenience but one that I could exploit. I knew that, if I wanted a special favour, I only had to smile at you or give you a compliment and you would give me whatever I wanted. I was ruthless. You must have known that, didn't you?'

Molly really did not want to be having this conversation but she could see that Sherlock did and, as he had just said, she could not refuse him anything he wanted.

'Yes, I knew and at times I thought I hated you for it. I felt really used, sometimes.'

'So why did you put up with me? Why didn't you just tell me to piss off?' he asked, candidly.

This was getting tougher by the minute. All her old insecurities were flooding back, remembering the many times that Sherlock had made her feel so small and ridiculous; criticising the size of her breasts and her mouth, commenting about her weight fluctuations. Why _had_ she put up with him?'

'Sherlock, isn't it obvious?' she asked him.

'Not to me, no.'

Molly could see by his eyes that he really meant that. She knew she was going to have to bare her soul right here, right now, because in his own way, he was baring his.

'You won't like what I'm going to say,' she said, feeling desperate.

'But I still want you to say it,' he persisted.

 _Oh, well_ , she thought, _here goes everything_.

'I did it because I loved you.'

There, she had said it.

He was processing this piece of information, like any other piece of data, running it through his logic systems and seeing how it might compute.

'And that was enough?' he asked, genuinely puzzled.

'More than enough,' she replied. She had started now so she might as well finish.

'You were the light of my life. When you walked into a room, the room lit up and when you walked out, it went dark. Just being near you made my life worthwhile. The days I didn't see you were wasted days.'

She was still watching his eyes and she could see that he was still processing.

'I would have done anything for you,' she declared.

'You are using the past tense,' he observed, almost clinically. 'Have your feelings changed?'

'Yes,' she answered, without hesitation.

This was really giving him pause for thought. He considered her response for a long time before he spoke again.

'So have you stopped loving me?'

'No. I just love you in a different way.'

That answer threw him, completely. He was way out of his depth now but he needed to try to get to the bottom of this.

'Explain what's different about the way you love me now,' he requested.

'I finally realised, in those last few days before everything went crazy, that you were the innocent victim in all of this,' Molly began. 'You never asked for me to fall in love with you. You would have been much happier if I hadn't. I was just being selfish, wanting you to reciprocate my feelings. You are who you are and, after all, that is the person I fell in love with, so why should I want you to change? I was being irrational. If you were the sort of person who found relationships easy, you would have been snapped up years ago by some gorgeous woman, because you would have been able to have any woman you wanted. You were way out of my league.'

She paused to let him digest this information and then continued,

'I realised that what we had was so much more, so much better than what I thought I wanted. You said it yourself, that night in my lab. You said I did count, that I had always counted and that you had always trusted me. That meant more to me than anything else ever could. And the fact that you came to me for help, of all the people you could have gone to, you chose me. That meant so much, too. All those years, I'd been looking for the fairy tale when, all along, what I had – what I have – is the reality. This is real, sitting here having this conversation. This is what matters to me.'

Molly could see Sherlock had that dazed look again, just as he had in the airport. He was going to need time to process all of this. She sat back in her chair and took a gulp of wine. She was not surprised when he stood up and said,

'I need to go.'

She walked him to the door and gave him her customary peck on the cheek. That was one concession she had won through persistence. He hardly even noticed when she did it, now.

'Safe journey home,' she said. 'Try not to get run over.'

'I won't. Or rather, I will,' he said, distractedly.

She watched him, on the monitor, walk down the path and out into the street. She knew he would go home to Baker Street and sit and pluck his violin for half the night, mulling over everything she had said and that, next time they met, he would have compartmentalised it all and they would be just fine with each other. That was just one of the many things she loved about Sherlock Holmes.

ooOoo


	15. Life After Death Chapter Fifteen

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Three - Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter Eight**

Molly pushed William in his buggy, round the crescent where they lived, to the gateway of their building. As she turned onto the front path, she saw a woman standing by the outer door to the building, holding a mobile phone to her ear. She looked to be around the mid to late fifties in age, well groomed, dressed in stylish but conservative clothing and court shoes. She had with her a large, expensive-looking suitcase on wheels.

As Molly approached, the woman turned toward her, a flustered air about her.

'Hello,' Molly said, with a kindly smile, 'Are you OK? Can I help you?'

'Oh, my dear,' the woman replied, in a lilting Dublin accent, smiling a worried smile. 'I'm here to visit my niece, Marina Marshall. She lives in the top flat. I don't know if you know her?'

Molly gave a little shrug.

'I sort of know of her,' she replied. 'We've met occasionally but I can't say we really know one another. You know how it is in a big city. You never really get to know your neighbours, do you?'

Molly realised she was babbling and shut up.

'Ah, well, you see' the lady went on, 'I texted her from the station to let her know I was nearly here but she hasn't replied and now she's not answering her door.'

She looked perturbed.

'It's a wee bit chilly out here on the step. I don't suppose you could let me in to wait in the hall, could you?' she asked, apologetically.

Molly looked at the pleading expression on the lady's face and was moved by her plight.

'Of course!,' she said, with a smile, 'In fact, why don't you come and wait in my flat. We can have a cup of tea!'

'Oh, no, dear, I couldn't possibly impose on you so much. I'll be fine in the hall,' the lady replied.

'It's no trouble, really,' Molly insisted, as she put in the key code and pushed open the door. 'Anyway, there isn't even a chair in the hall. I can hardly leave you standing there, can I? Who knows how long your niece might be.'

'Well, that's most kind of you,' the lady replied, smiling with gratitude.

Molly led the way into the hall way and told the lady to leave her case inside the front door, as she unlocked the internal door to her flat, inviting her in. 'Your case will be safe there, I assure you,' she said.

Once inside the flat, Molly lifted William out of the buggy, removed his outer clothing and let him run into the sitting room, to switch on his favourite TV programme. She stowed the buggy in the cupboard, took the lady's coat and hung it, with hers and William's, on the coat pegs in the hall way.

'Please come in,' she said, inviting the woman to enter the sitting room ahead of her. 'I'll just put the kettle on. You have a seat.'

As Molly walked through the sitting room to the kitchen at the back of the flat, the lady followed her.

'This is a lovely flat you have here, my dear,' she commented, appreciatively.

'Oh, please call me Molly,' Molly insisted, as she began preparing the tea.

'Then you must call me Bernadette,' her guest smiled. 'And what a sweet little boy, you have, too. So quiet and well-behaved.'

'Oh, don't you be fooled,' Molly joked, 'He has his lively moments, believe me!'

'Ah, well, that's little boys for you.'

There was a wistful tone to Bernadette's voice that made Molly look at her, with sympathy. The woman went on,

'I had a wee boy, a lovely wee boy…' her voice trailed off, and Molly felt a lot of pain and sorrow in the silence that followed. 'Still,' the lady said, seeming to metaphorically shake herself, 'It doesn't do to dwell on the past, now does it? Oh, thank you, dear!' she smiled and accepted the mug of hot tea that Molly passed to her, across the kitchen table.

Molly turned to root around in the fridge for the makings of hers and William's supper, as the lady said,

'Oh, I left my hand bag in your parlour, dear. I wonder if Marina has answered my call?'

She put down her cup and walked back into the sitting room, picked up her hand bag from the arm chair and took out a chunky device that looked a little like a mobile phone but was too thick and blocky in shape. She pressed a button on the front of the device and a green LED came on. She pushed the object down the side of the seat cushion on the arm chair, then, putting her hand back into the hand bag, she took out a compact semi-automatic pistol. Turning around, Bernadette walked back into the kitchen, carrying the pistol casually at her side. She stopped at the kitchen table, picked up her mug of tea in her free hand and took a sip.

'You do make a smashing cup of tea, Miss Hooper,' she said.

Molly began to respond to the compliment and then registered the use of her formal name. She froze with alarm and then turned to look at the woman - who stood in her kitchen, pointing a gun at her chest.

'You know, Miss Hooper, you really should not be so trusting,' said Bernadette, smiling no longer.

Molly was struck dumb with shock and a rising feeling of dread.

'Now, we don't want to frighten the wee man, do we?' said the woman. 'So, you go and get together a few bits and bobs for an over-night stay and you and I are going to take little William for a ride in my van. And don't even think of trying to ring your smart boyfriend or his even smarter brother, as the phones will not be working. Oh, and don't bother looking at the surveillance cameras, either. They are also indisposed. I'll just sit with the wee boy whilst you get your things together.' Bernadette waggled the gun to direct Molly towards the corridor to the bedrooms. 'Don't take too long, my dear. We don't have all day.'

Molly walked swiftly to William's bedroom. Her thoughts and her heart were racing. She began shoving things into a sports bag, on automatic pilot, selecting items she would normally take on an over-night visit – underwear, socks, PJ's, a change of clothes and the like. She picked up William's bedtime toy, the little black and white Snoopy dog that Mycroft had bought for him when he was a new-born. He would not be able to sleep without it.

She went into the bathroom and collected his toiletries, pushing them into the side pocket of the bag. There was something about this woman who had invaded hers and William's life so abruptly, something strangely familiar, though Molly was certain she had never met the woman before.

Then she saw the magnetic alphabet letters that William loved to play with them in the bath, stuck to the side of the metal tub. Risking everything on her intuition, Molly reached down and quickly rearranged the letters into a short phrase, brushing the spare letters into the bottom of the tub, then rushed out of the room and shut the door.

Bernadette, if that really was her name, was sitting in the arm chair, smiling benignly in William's direction. The gun was still in her hand, lying by her side, not visible, but Molly knew it was there. The woman looked up and said,

'Are we ready to go, then? Lovely! Come along, William, we are going on a little adventure!'

William looked at the woman and frowned, then looked at his mother. She was smiling but he thought she did not look happy. And why were they going out when they had only just come home? William didn't like sudden changes of routine, they unsettled him. He liked to know what was coming next. But his mummy was saying _Turn off the TV_ , and something told him that he should do what she said, straight away.

Molly dressed her son in his outdoor clothes and began to put on her own coat but suddenly looked at the other woman, who was putting on her coat, too.

'What about food? We haven't had supper,' she said.

'Don't you worry, dear, I've thought of everything,' the lady said, in a sinister parody of concern and reassurance. She indicated that Molly should lead the way out of the flat, but she took hold of William's hand, keeping him with her. As they left through the front door, they passed right by the woman's suitcase, but she didn't give it a second glance. It had served its purpose.

Down the path, they walked in single file, Molly in front. At the gateway, the woman indicated to go left and Molly saw a blue Ford Transit van parked at the curb, two houses down. The woman took out a remote key and unlocked all the doors. She told Molly to open the passenger side door and fasten William into the middle seat, between the driver and the passenger.

'There's no child seat,' Molly said, in dismay. The woman gave her a patronising look which suggested that the lack of a child car seat might be the least of William's troubles in the next few hours or days, so Molly fastened him in, using the lap strap. Then she was instructed to get in herself, so she did and the woman said,

'Hold out your hands, Miss Hooper.'

Molly held her hands out towards Bernadette, who slipped a cable tie around each of her wrists and looped one through the other, securing the wrists together.

'Just in case you take it upon yourself to make a run for it,' the woman explained.

She slammed the passenger door closed and hurried around the front of the vehicle, climbing into the driver's seat. She dropped the gun into the door pocket, started the engine and drove away, with not a soul around to witness the double abduction of Molly and William from one of the best guarded homes in London. It had been all too easy.

ooOoo


	16. Life After death Chapter Sixteen

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Three – Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter Nine**

Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk in his plush office in Whitehall, overlooking Horse Guards' Parade. The room resembled a gentleman's study, with its green leather wing chairs, and walnut desk, with brass fittings and a green leather panel inlaid into the desktop. On one side of the desk was the ubiquitous green reading lamp, favoured by many gentlemen of Mycroft's vintage, on the other side, a bronze ink stand, featuring the figure of a water buffalo being attacked by a Bengal tiger. Mycroft was reading a document, with rapt attention, when a quick knock at the door was followed by the appearance of his PA, Anthea, in the door way. He looked up, his interest piqued by the fact that she had not waited to be invited to enter.

'Sir,' she said, 'we've had a call from Tech Centre. Surveillance is down in the whole of Miss Hooper's area.'

Mycroft was on his feet immediately.

'Have you scrambled the Hooper team?' he barked.

She replied in the affirmative.

'And my driver?'

'Down stairs,' she said.

Mycroft left his office at a brisk walk and followed his PA into the vintage lift, alighting on the ground floor and exiting the building through the main doors, slipping straight into the back seat of the waiting car. Even as the car moved away, he had his mobile in his hand and was pressing Sherlock's speed dial number. Sherlock answered on the third ring.

'To what do I owe the…..' Sherlock began to drawl but was cut off by Mycroft's urgent tone.

'Surveillance is down in Molly's building and her phone is going straight to voice mail. I'm on my way to pick you up.'

'No!' Sherlock snapped. 'Go straight there. I'll get a cab and meet you.'

He shut off his phone, jumped up from the kitchen table where he had been looking into the lens of his microscope, and hit the ground running.

ooOoo

Bernadette drove the blue van, via a very circuitous route through back roads and residential streets, to avoid CCTV surveillance, Molly guessed. After half an hour or so, the van pulled onto an abandoned demolition site, pressed into service as a temporary car park by the indigenous population. The woman halted the van and shut off the engine.

'Right,' she said, 'we just need to do a bit of housekeeping.'

She reached across in front of Molly, into the glove compartment under the dashboard and took out a device that looked like a small hair drier. She flicked on a switch and it began to hum, quietly. Molly's eyes widened in alarm as the woman pointed the device at the top of William's head.

'Don't hurt him!' she begged.

But the woman just laughed and began to move the device down William's body, in a scanning motion. It continued to hum quietly until she came to his shoes, when it emitted a high pitched whine.

'Oh, Mycroft Holmes, you're so predictable,' the woman laughed. 'Take off the child's shoes,' she ordered Molly, who looked at her without the slightest clue as to what had just happened.

Bernadette saw her confusion and explained.

'Uncle Mycroft has tracker devices fitted into the wee man's shoes, Miss Hooper. He's probably fitted one somewhere on you, too. I just need to find it.'

Molly was astounded. She'd had no idea. Reluctantly, she removed William's shoes and placed them in the woman's outstretched hand. She put them in the door pocket, saying, mostly to herself,

'We'll deal with those, presently.'

She got out of the van and came around to Molly's side, opening the door.

'Get out, Miss Hooper,' she snapped.

Molly's stomach lurched, for the umpteenth time since this nightmare began, but she did as she was told and got out of the van, giving William a reassuring smile as she did so. William just gazed at her with that solemn, strangely knowing look of his and continued to sit quietly in the front of the van. The woman slid open the rear side door to the empty interior of the vehicle.

'You will be travelling Club Class from here on in,' she said and gestured for Molly to get into the back of the van. Molly thought about this for a moment but could not see any way out of the situation at the present time, so she climbed in. She was ordered to sit in the corner, behind the driver's seat, and her wrists were secured to a strut on the side of the van by a length of twine, tied there for this precise purpose, slipped through the cable binders that encircled her wrists. Bernadette took a sack-like bag out of her coat pocket and shoved it over Molly's head.

It happened so fast, Molly could do nothing to avoid it but, plunged into the suffocating interior of the bag, she began to struggle, making it difficult for the woman to secure the draw-string around Molly's neck. To enlist some co-operation, the woman banged Molly's head hard on the side of the van, splitting her eyebrow and causing her vision to spark and flash inside the bag. The ploy worked, as Molly became passive and the draw string was tied tightly at the back of her neck, where she could not reach it.

Having made Molly secure, the woman carried out a scan on her, too, with the detector device but she found nothing.

'Mycroft Holmes missed a trick, there,' she sneered and turned to get out of the van.

'Why are you doing this?' Molly called out, plaintively.

'You are a clever girl, Miss Hooper, I know you are. Why don't you take a leaf out of your smart boyfriend's book and figure it out for yourself. What is it he calls it, 'The Science of Deduction'? Well, you deduce.'

Bernadette jumped out of the van and slid the door closed, shutting out even the defuse light that had permeated the inside of the blindfold hood. As the engine started up again and the vehicle began to move, Molly felt her panic rise and she began to tremble, violently.

ooOoo

By the time the cab dropped Sherlock outside Molly's building, the scene was a hive of activity. There were figures in blue SOC suits coming in and out and Mycroft was standing by a white Tech van, talking to someone inside. Sherlock hurried over to him, to hear what the technician was saying. The interior of the van was lined with state of the art surveillance monitoring equipment, including numerous key boards and monitor screens.

'The Wi-Fi went down at 17.24 hours, sir. We found a jammer stuffed down the side of a chair in the flat. It was very powerful, knocked out all the Wi-Fi signals over a half mile radius. Nothing was working until we shut it off.'

'What about before it was activated? What do you have saved?' Mycroft demanded.

The tech guy clicked back through a number of screens on his computer until the monitor showed an image of Molly approaching the front door of her building. All three men watched in silence as the scene played out before their eyes. They observed the conversation between Molly and the smartly dressed woman, standing by the door, with a suitcase, and saw Molly open the door and lead the woman in.

The view changed to the vantage point just above the arch from Molly's hall way to her sitting room. They saw William sit down to watch TV and Molly and the woman go into the kitchen. The technician moved the action on and the woman came back into view, approached the arm chair and took a black device from her hand bag. She handled it briefly, and the screen went blank.

There was a nanosecond of silence, before Mycroft said,

'What about the tracker?'

'We did have a brief signal, when we shut down the jammer. It was in Poplar, just north of the Isle of Dogs but it cut off after only five or so minutes. However, before it shut down, it was heading east. Last location was East India Dock Basin.'

'The basin?' Sherlock's face was a gaunt mask.

'Yes, sir,' the tech continued. 'We don't think shoes were being worn when the signal stopped. They have a bio-feed circuit which is activated when the sensor is in contact with his feet. It works like those monitors they put on your fingers in hospital. As long as there's a pulse...'

'I know how it works,' Sherlock snapped. It was not lost on him that the absence of a pulse could be down to something other than the removal of the shoes. The tech man, thus admonished, continued with his report.

'We've sent a team over there to retrieve the shoes and see if there were any witnesses to them being dumped. We're also checking CCTV in the Isle of Dogs and Poplar area,' he concluded.

'Who is this woman? Do we have a full face?' Mycroft interjected.

The tech clicked to another window and it showed a full face image of the woman standing by the front door.

'We've run it through facial recognition, sir, but there's no match in any data base, so far. She appears to be an Unknown.'

Sherlock turned around and leant back on the side of the van, cupping his hands to his face.

'We missed someone, Mycroft! How did that happen?'

His voice was desolate.

Mycroft Holmes reached out and placed his hand on his brother's shoulder, in a rare gesture of fraternal solidarity.

'Alright,' he said. 'Call Lestrade. Bring in the Met. We need all the help we can get on this.'

ooOoo

Molly had been shaken around in the back of the van for what seemed like an age, except for a short stop, about five minutes into the journey, when Bernadette had stepped out of the vehicle, briefly, before getting back in, performing a U-turn and driving on.

During that brief period, when Molly and William were alone in the van, separated only by the thin wall of the cab, Molly called out softly to her son, telling him she was still here and he was OK. She could picture William, sitting silent and still in the front of the van, like a wild animal freezing in response to sudden danger. She had known him to react like this, in the past, to strange or unfamiliar situations. It was a coping mechanism.

He would be wondering where his mummy had gone, not understanding why she left him without saying goodbye. She hoped he could hear her calling to him and that he was comforted and reassured by the sound of her voice. But the woman was climbing back into the van, curtailing any further communication between mother and son.

ooOoo

Following a series of rapid direction changes, the van came to a halt and the engine died. Molly leant her head on her upraised arms and heaved an exhausted sigh. Without being able to use her hands to aid her balance, she had been at the mercy of inertia and she felt battered and bruised.

She heard the woman get out of driver's door and, next, some loud clanking noises and metallic screeches. Then the side door of the van opened and the woman climbed into the back. She untied the twine that held Molly's shackles to the side of the van and yanked her to her feet, pushing her out of the van, where she fell flat on her face on a hard tarmac surface, scraping her knees and her elbows as she tried to break her fall.

She could tell, despite the restrictions of the hood, that it was dark outside, and, by the smell of the air, that they were somewhere near water. The woman, who despite her genteel appearance was remarkably strong, dragged her up onto her feet and propelled her forwards into a cavernous space that rang with a metallic clang, and amplified her footsteps. She was pushed against a cold metal wall and made to sit on the hard bare floor, also metallic and cold.

Molly heard the woman walk away and began to panic but then she heard her returning with William. She couldn't hear his footsteps, as he was in his stockinged feet, divested of his bugged shoes, but she sensed his presence. The woman pushed William towards Molly and he ran over and threw his arms round her neck. She couldn't see him, because of the bag over her head, or hug him, because of her bound wrists, but she spoke quiet, loving reassurances to him, as he clung to her.

Molly felt the woman apply binders to her ankles, like the ones she had fastened to her wrists earlier, then the bag was unfastened and roughly removed. Molly looked around. She was in a large metal shed of some description. It was completely empty except for her, her child, the woman and a Tesco shopping bag which lay on the floor, just out of reach.

Her captor spoke.

'This is going to be your home for the next day or two,' Bernadette explained. 'Not quite up to your usual standard but I hope you will be happy here.'

'Who are you?' Molly asked.

'Have you not worked it out yet?' the woman exclaimed. 'Goodness me, what does that smart man of yours see in you? You must be damn good in the sack because you don't seem to have much in the way of brains,' she taunted.

'Oh, alright,' she capitulated. 'Since you bothered to ask, I'll tell you. You know that wee boy I told you about? Well, he was a very clever wee boy and he grew up to be an even cleverer man. He was very successful, had a business that stretched right around the whole world and he was doing so very well for himself until he got involved with your man. That was his undoing.

Your man killed him. I don't know how or why but I know he did. And, d'you know, I never even got to say goodbye to my wee man because his body has never been found! But his business associates told me that your man was to blame for his death. They also told me that your boyfriend had died too, on the same day, and that his evil brother had sworn to dismantle my boy's business empire, destroy everything he had worked so hard to create. And so he did, the evil murdering bastard.

And just when I think it can't get any worse, I pick up the paper one day only to see that Sherlock bloody Holmes is not dead after all but has been in hiding for three years, hunting down some master criminal's henchmen. How DARE he call my darling wee boy a master criminal!'

Bernadette's voice had been rising steadily as she related her twisted version of the facts, until she practically screamed the last few words.

Molly stared in horror at the mad, ranting female in front of her. Her intuition, back there in the bathroom at home, had been correct. She had guessed or perhaps deduced, that this revenge-crazed harridan was none other than the mother of James Moriarty.

The woman seemed to regain control and blew out a long breath.

'So, my dear Miss Hooper, it's payback time. Wouldn't you do anything to avenge the death of your wee boy, here, should he die in such a manner as my boy? Well, we'll see what your Mr Sherlock has to say for himself soon enough but, for now, you are my guest, you and Sherlock Holmes' child. We'll let your man stew for a while and you can make yourself at home here for a day or two.'

The woman reached behind her and threw the overnight bag that Molly had packed for William on to the floor in front of her.

'There's food and drink over there, enough for a day or two, at least,' she smirked, indicating the Tesco bag. 'And you will be needing this, as I'm afraid this house has no windows.'

She tossed a shiny red object onto the overnight bag. It was a clockwork wind up torch.

The woman turned and walked out of the shed and the heavy metal doors clanged shut, sealing Molly and William into the darkness.

ooOoo

'Sir, I think you should see this.'

The man in the blue overall had approached Mycroft and Sherlock from the direction of Molly's building so the two brothers followed him back the way he had come, in through the main front door, passed the suitcase still standing by the front door. As they entered Molly's flat, Sherlock felt physically sick. This was all his fault. How could he have been so stupid as to come back and announce to the world that he was alive? It was bound to attract someone's attention.

But who could it be? They had been so thorough. Moriarty's whole operation had been shut down, dismantled, destroyed. But they had obviously over-looked someone. The SOC man was leading them past the bedrooms. Sherlock looked into Molly's room and saw the blue suited agents pouring over her possessions. It felt like witnessing a rape.

Passing William's room, he looked in and saw the same gross invasion of privacy going on in there too and, although he knew it was necessary, it still felt wrong. The only consolation he could find in this was that these were Mycroft's men and not Anderson.

The brothers were led to William's bathroom. Sherlock walked to the doorway, and stopped dead. His eyes were drawn immediately to the magnetic letters stuck to the side of the bath. They spelt out a phrase.

'jims mum gun.'

ooOoo


	17. Life After Death Chapter Seventeen

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Three – Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter Ten**

As the doors to her prison clanged shut, plunging them into complete darkness, Molly felt William go stiff and still.

'It's Ok, baby boy. Don't be frightened. Mummy's here,' she whispered.

The first priority was light. She needed to get the torch. William was clinging to her chest, pinning her arms to her body. She needed to free them. She pushed gently against him and managed to get her hands up to his face, where she cupped his chin.

'Sit up, baby, and let go of Mummy, just for a minute,' she coaxed.

Molly eased the toddler away from her and managed to get her arms free and raise them above his head, then brought down, behind his back and held him close. Every movement caused the hard, plastic edges of the cable ties to scrape against and cut into her wrists. It was so painful, it made her gasp but she had to ignore it. There were things she needed to do.

Leaning forward, she groped around in the dark until her hands touched the fabric of the overnight bag. She grabbed hold and pulled it towards her, feeling around on top, between the handles, until she found the clockwork torch. Holding it between both hands, she explored its surface with her fingertips, looking for the on/off switch. There it was – a shield-shaped, soft, rubber bulge, on the top side of the torch. She pressed it with her right thumb and heard it click, but no light showed. It was obviously not wound up.

 _Of course not,_ thought Molly. _Would Bernadette have made it that easy?_

She had to work out a way to wind it up. Feeling around the shape in her hand, she found the winding handle, folded into the back of the case. She managed to flick it out, with her thumb and, holding the torch in one hand, she used the middle finger of the other hand to turn the winding handle round and round. As the battery inside was charged, the LED bulbs began to glow, getting brighter and brighter, projecting a patch of light onto the ceiling of the metal box.

'OK, William, we can see what we are doing now, at least,' Molly said, trying to sound as cheerful as possible.

The next priority was to find out what food they had and, more specifically, what there was to drink. She needed to enlist William's help, partly to reduce the amount of movement she had to make, because the chaffing of her wrists by the cable ties was becoming quite excruciating, but mainly to get him involved in some activity, to occupy his mind and get him moving around, as it was deathly cold in the metal box. She shone the torch over to her left until it lighted on the plastic grocery bag.

'William,' she said, brightly, 'Look where Mummy is pointing. See the bag, baby? Can you get that bag for Mummy?' William lifted his head from her chest and looked in the direction of the torch beam. He saw the plastic bag. He crawled out from under her arms and toddled the short distance to the bag, grasped the handles and dragged it back across the floor to his mother, sitting back down in her lap.

'Here, baby, you hold the torch,' said Molly. 'Point it in there so Mummy can see what food we've got.'

William took the torch and directed the beam into the bag. Molly reached inside and started to take out what she found there.

Bananas. Slow release energy – that was good. Chocolate bars. Again, slow-release energy, and positive endorphins – that was good, too. Packets of crisps. Fats and carbohydrates – good. But the salt and the dryness – not so good. The crisps would make them thirsty and it didn't look as though they had much to drink. Just a four-pack of bottled water, with half a litre in each, was all the fluids they had. That was all there was in the bag.

That wouldn't last long, at all. She would have to ration the water. It had been really busy at work, too, and Molly had skipped two breaks. Neither had she managed to drink the cup of tea she made when she got home so she was already feeling pretty dehydrated – not a good place from which to start.

Because they had missed supper, Molly decided that first priority must be to eat something. She took one of the bananas and tore open the peel. Taking one bite herself, she took the torch from William and gave him the rest of the banana to eat, whilst she moved on to the next priority.

Although, it was not particularly chilly outside, the metal floor of the 'building' was sucking heat out of their bodies, conducting it away. She needed something to put between her bottom and the floor that could act as an insulator. A sheet of card board would have been perfect but there was no such thing in the box. She needed to keep William warm and, at the moment, his feet were on the cold metal floor, wearing only socks. Gripping the torch between her knees, Molly unzipped the hold-all reached inside.

Finding William's carpet slippers, she pulled them from the bag and put them on his feet. She also found his little dressing gown and draped it round his shoulders for now, whilst he was still busy eating the banana. She felt around in the bag again, getting right down to the bottom, and felt something she had not realised was already in there when she had packed, in a panic, earlier in the evening. It was William's thermal huggy blanket.

He had not used it for months. A hang-over from when she used to swaddle him at bedtimes, he had taken to carrying it around with him, like Linus in 'Peanuts'. But he had grown out of that particular habit about six months ago and the blanket had lain forgotten, inside the sports bag. What a lucky break. It would provide a little bit of insulation, if she could just manage to spread it on the floor and sit on it.

When William finished his banana, Molly opened one of the chocolate bars and gave him four squares, while she ate two, then she got him to stand up and hold the torch again, while she rolled over, onto her knees and spread the blanket on the floor. Not being able to move her hands apart made this manoeuvre so difficult but, eventually, the blanket was spread out and she rolled back onto her bottom, on top of it. It gave a small but very welcome degree of relief from the intense cold of the metal.

After some very painful manipulating, Molly managed to liberate one of the water bottles from the plastic rings that held them together in the four-pack, removed the plastic cap and, holding the bottle between her feet, pulled the plunger out to release the valve. She gave the bottle to William and he drank, thirstily, but she had to stop him after a few moments because she didn't know how long they would be in here. The woman had said 'a day or two', but that seemed pretty vague. She might have meant a week. Molly took one small sip herself, just to moisten her mouth, pushed down the plunger to reseal the bottle and put it back in the grocery bag.

The torch had been on for about twenty minutes and the beam was losing its power. It needed to be wound again. Molly thought it a good idea to get William involved in this practice, to keep his mind and body busy and, therefore, warm. She showed him how the winding handle worked and, after a few false starts, he got the hang of it and rather enjoyed the activity, especially as the beam got brighter, the more he wound the handle.

Molly looked at her watch. It was seven in the evening, William's bed time. Keeping to some sort of routine, she reasoned, would help her little boy cope with this terrible ordeal therefore he should 'go to bed'. She set about getting him ready.

His fleecy pyjamas would be warmest next to his skin, so Molly sat William in her lap, removed his top clothes, put his PJ's on and replaced his clothes, over the top. The next part of her hastily devised plan was going to be tricky. She figured that the sports bag could take the place of sleeping bag for William. He would fit into it, just about, if he curled up in the foetal position but she didn't know how he would take to being put into a bag. Making it into a game was the option most likely to succeed.

Taking out the story book, 'Where the Wild Things Are', Molly gave William the book to hold, in his outstretched arms, while she held the torch and read the story, with all the voices and sound effects, as she normally did. When the story was finished, she prompted him to turn to the page with the picture of the boat.

'William, would you like to sail away in a little boat, just like Max?' she asked.

William nodded, a little warily, as this was a new idea.

'Here, Will, this is going to be your boat,' Molly said, shining the torch into the bag. 'Let's make it cosy, first,' she suggested, as she spread his spare clothes out on the bottom, for a bit of padding and insulation. Wrapping him in his dressing gown, she encouraged him to climb into the bag and curl up, then gave him his Snoopy dog to cuddle. She spread hiss warm winter coat over him, like a blanket, and zipped the bag two-thirds shut, leaving a 'breathing space', at the head end. Following the order of the nightly routine, Molly said,

'Say night-night to daddy, William,' almost choking on the emotion that this provoked in her heart.

'Where daddy?' asked William, in a tearful voice.

'Don't cry, baby. Daddy will come soon,' Molly assured him, hoping against hope that this would be the case, although how he would achieve it, she had no idea. She pulled the bag close to her, curled up on the blanket, switched off the torch and, closing her eyes, tried to sleep.

ooOoo

At the end of his day shift at St Mary's A and E, John Watson changed out of his hospital blues and back into civilian clothes. Putting his hand into his jacket pocket, he took out his mobile phone and switched it back on. He had two texts and a voice mail from Sherlock. That was unusual. Sherlock never phoned – well, rarely – so his interest was piqued. He opened the first text and had to read it twice, to be certain he wasn't imagining things. It read:

 _Molly and Will kidnapped. Call me_. _SH._

John didn't bother to read the second text. He switched to phone mode and pressed Sherlock's speed dial icon. The answer was instant and the voice at the other end sounded tense and not a little panicky.

'They're gone, John. She took them!'

'Where are you?' John asked, getting straight to the point

'I'm on my way to the Isle of Dogs, East India Dock Basin. It's the place they were last known to be,' Sherlock rattled off.

'Bloody hell, it's going to take me at least an hour to get there at this time of day. I'm at St Mary's,' John replied.

'Just come, John, please,' Sherlock begged. That was not a tone that John was accustomed to hearing from the Consulting Detective, not ever wished to hear again.

'Hey, no sweat, of course, I'll come. Just hang in there, OK? And don't do anything stupid, before I get there, yeah?'

'Thank you, John,' Sherlock replied, with heartfelt gratitude. 'I'll try not to,' he added and broke the connection.

John Watson ran through the hospital and out of the front entrance, hailing a cab, as soon as he touched the pavement. He gave the cabby his destination and got straight on the phone to Mary, to tell her what was going on. After speaking to her, he dialled Mycroft's number to get the full story, including the identity of 'she'.

ooOoo

Sherlock sat in the back of Mycroft's car, as it drove along the A13, towards the Isle of Dogs and East India Dock Basin. He was trying to marshal his thoughts, organise his brain, but he kept hitting a blank wall. 'Fear is the mind killer' – that famous quote from Frank Herbert - kept running through his mind, like a loop of tape on a reel-to-reel, blocking out all coherent thought. He could not get that stupid phrase out of his head. He leaned forward, dropping his head into his hands and rubbing at his scalp with his fingertips, as if he might scrub the intruding thought away but it just would not go. He leaned back on the leather head rest and closed his eyes.

'How much longer?' he asked the driver.

'In this traffic, sir, twenty minutes,' the man replied, the due deference in his tone tinged with empathy. This may be his boss's brother but he was also a man whose family had been kidnapped at gun point by a vengeful woman. How ironic, he thought, that the very person to whom other people came to find their stolen relatives was now the victim of such a crime. Who could he turn to?

Sherlock thudded his head against the head rest, in frustration, and tried for the dozenth time to employ a meditation technique to clear his mind but Frank Herbert would not vacate.

At long last, they arrived at the East India Dock Basin. The car pulled off the road and drew to a halt, alongside several other vehicles involved in the search for Molly and William. The Basin was once part of the East India Dock, the hub of the spice and tea trade for the British Empire during the Nineteenth Century. Later, it was of huge importance to the War Effort, during WW2, as the place where the Mulberry Harbours were constructed, for use in the D-Day landings in Normandy. More recently, the dock had been mostly filled in, with the basin itself being transformed into a wildlife reserve.

It was a quiet spot, isolated, frequented only by bird-watchers and dog walkers. It was the perfect spot to dump a pair of child's shoes – or a child - with little chance of the deed being witnessed and no CCTV.

Sherlock was shown to a taped off area, just off the road but near to the water, where there were tyre tracks. The width and spacing of the tracks suggested a medium sized van, similar to the sort favoured by White Van men the world over. The tracks were fresh – very clean, not scuffed or worn down. There was a single set of foot prints, leading from the place where the van had been to the water's edge and back again, which might indicate that someone had gotten out of the driver's side door, gone to throw something into the water and then returned to the vehicle.

Acting on that assumption, police divers from the Port of London, based at Tilbury Docks, were preparing to enter the water to begin a search for whatever had been thrown in.

If traces of William were found, be it shoes or something more, it would prove that the kidnapper stopped here to dispose of them. But did it prove that these tyre tracks belonged to the kidnap vehicle? Sherlock surveyed the scene, recreating in his mind what had transpired here.

He looked at the tyre tracks and all around the immediate area surrounding them. There were no other tracks visible in the dry, sandy road surface. No other vehicle had passed here since it last rained, two nights before.

He got down on his hands and knees and looked at the foot prints. He had seen the images of the woman believed to be the kidnapper, alongside Molly on the CCTV footage from Molly's flat. Comparing the height and build of the two women, Sherlock calculated Bernadette's weight at around nine stones. William's weight was two stones. He looked at the degree of indentation the footprints had made in the sandy surface and performed a quick mental calculation. Then he stood up and gave a quick nod. These indentations were too shallow for a combined weight of eleven stones.

For confirmation, he looked more closely at the prints nearest to the water, where it was believed this person had stood and thrown something into the Basin. Their weight was predominantly on the right foot and the left print was blurred, where the foot had twisted.

This person was left handed and had thrown something small, with an over-arm delivery, out into the deeper part of the basin. So, no body – however small – had been cast in here, in the last few hours, at least.

Turning to the officer in charge of the scene, he said,

'It was just the shoes she threw in, not the child. Over there, in the deep water.'

The man, who had been advised that Sherlock Holmes was coming to inspect the scene but not about his connection to the missing child, gave him a leary look and said,

'We can't know that, sir. If there's the slightest possibility that there is a child in here, we will keep searching – all night, if necessary. We're bringing in lamps.'

It was nearly dark. Sherlock was absolutely certain that William was not in the water, but the shoes probably were. If the shoes could be retrieved quickly, there may be trace evidence on them that might be of some use but the longer they remained in the water, the more such evidence would degrade. And, so far, this was the only lead they had. He was not sure how successful a dive would be, looking for a pair of children's shoes in the dark, even with lamps. This was feeling more and more like a dead end.

He made a decision, took out his iPhone and called John.

'Where abouts are you?' he asked.

John consulted the cabby,

'Stepney,' he replied.

'Look, John, I'm coming back. There's nothing to be gained here. Tell your cabby to drop you at a café – I don't suppose you've had supper – and we'll pick you up on the way.'

He cut off the call, turned to the man again and said,

'Tell them to look in the deep water, over there,' and walked back to the staff car. He climbed back in, grateful, at least, that his visit to this potential crime scene had evicted Frank Herbert from his Mind Palace and kick-started his brain. As the car pulled away, made a U-turn and headed back towards Central London, Sherlock texted DI Lestrade:

 _Where is the suitcase? SH_

After a short interval, he received the reply:

 _Hall outside Molly's flat._

Sherlock texted again:

 _Keep it there. I need to see it._

John sat in the café on the Commercial Road, just up from Limehouse, tucking into an all-day breakfast and taking large swigs from a mug of strong tea. When on an investigation with Sherlock, it was always wise to eat whenever the opportunity presented itself, as one never knew when it might happen again, so he was making the most of this meal break. He was just sopping up the last of the egg yolk with a doorstep-sized slice of bread and butter when Sherlock appeared at the door of the café. John knocked back the last of his tea, as he stood up from the table, retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair and followed his friend out to the waiting car.

'How are you doing?' John asked, as the car pulled back into the stream of traffic and continued on its journey.

'I want to have a look at the suitcase that woman brought with her. It's the only tangible piece of evidence we have, at the moment.'

ooOoo

Pulling up outside Molly's building, the scene was far calmer than it had been when Sherlock left it, over an hour ago. All the Secret Service vehicles had gone, replaced by a single Met squad car and Lestrade's unmarked police car. As John and Sherlock walked up to the front door, away from Mycroft's car, it also departed. The two friends were admitted to the building by a uniformed police officer. The door to Molly's flat was propped open and they walked straight in. The suitcase that had been standing by the front door was now in the middle of Molly's sitting room, lying on top of a square of plastic sheeting, and Lestrade was sitting in the arm chair, waiting for them.

'Who has touched it?' asked Sherlock.

'Mycroft's mob got to it before we were called in. It's been dusted for prints, and checked for explosives by Anti-terror Division,' Lestrade reported, succinctly.

'And?' Sherlock asked, equally succinctly.

'Lots of dabs. If she's got form, we should know pretty soon. No explosives in the case. We've also had a tracker dog in. It would appear that both abductees walked out of the building and got into a vehicle parked two doors down.'

John gave Lestrade a sharp look, for his use of the term 'abductees' but Sherlock gave no sign that he had noticed the word. He was circling the suitcase, like a wolf circling its prey, pulling on the nitrile gloves that had been placed on top of the case, for his convenience. He knelt down and squeezed the two buttons on the locking mechanism, releasing the latch, and unzipped the case, opening it right up.

It was full of used clothes of all kinds - men's, women's and children's - the sort sold in charity shops, the sort that people were constantly being asked to donate, via plastic sacks, pushed through their letter boxes. Though used, they were freshly laundered and neatly folded. It was obvious that the kidnapper had never worn any of these clothes. They were just a prop. But there was something about this collection of clothes that was speaking to him. Unfortunately, Sherlock could not yet hear what it was saying.

 _This is significant_ , he thought, but try as he may he could not see why, so he filed it away for future consideration, closed the case, and stood up.

'What do we have on the woman?' he asked.

'Absolutely zilch,' Lestrade admitted. 'Your brother has taken charge of that line of enquiry. Unless we get a match on the prints, there's nowhere else we can go but Mycroft, of course, has access to other sources, not just criminal records'

'Ok,' said John, 'so just to recap, we don't know what vehicle was used – though possibly some kind of commercial van - we know they were headed east, at least up to the time when the shoes were dumped, and we know she is Moriarty's mother...'

'Allegedly,' Sherlock interjected. John looked at him, quizzically.

'We only have Molly's word for that. It hasn't been confirmed, so it can't be counted as a fact.'

'OK, we think she is Moriarty's mother and she has a gun - allegedly. Did I miss anything?' John asked. Lestrade shook his head.

'So, in other words, we've got sod all,' he concluded.

'Not quite,' Sherlock corrected him. 'We have the footprints and tyre tracks form the Basin and a clear full-face image from the CCTV. That's quite a lot to be going on with.'

'And we have a partial foot print from the hall tiles that is not Molly's shoe size,' Lestrade added. If it matches the ones from the Basin then we can link the two scenes.'

 _But did it bring them any nearer to finding out where Molly and William had been taken_ , thought John. He had no idea.

ooOoo

Back in his office, Mycroft sat with his elbows on his desk, fingers steepled under his chin, addressing his most senior aides, setting wheels in motion.

'We need to know this woman's name and whether or not she is Moriarty's mother, so get me a copy of James Moriarty's birth certificate. We must assume that she is resident in the Republic of Ireland, until we learn to the contrary. Send that full face image to every port of entry in mainland Britain. I want to know how and when she came in. Send it to motorway services, too, for comparison with CCTV records. Let's see if we can establish what she's driving. She may be travelling under an assumed name so see what names, if any, the ports come up with. Once we have a name, run it through all the car and van rental and sales records. What do we have on the jammer?'

'Still under analysis, sir, but we may have a manufacturer and a retailer quite soon. We are checking internet sites, as well as the usual sources.'

'Do we have a comparison of the partial footprint from the flat and the prints at the basin?'

'Still under analysis, sir.'

'Have the shoes been retrieved?'

'No, sir. The initial search of the shallow water was negative. They are broadening the area, into the deeper water, using lamps.'

'Does anyone have anything to add?'

No one spoke.

'Then, thank you, gentlemen – and lady. Keep me informed.'

They all filed out, except for Anthea.

'Do you need anything, sir?' she asked.

'Divine intervention would be helpful,' he commented. 'Is my car back?'

The answer was in the affirmative.

'Then I shall be at my club. Let me know if anything happens, please.'

ooOoo

Sgt Donovan came through to the sitting room, from the bedroom area.

'We're nearly done here, sir, she said. 'We just need to wrap up that suitcase and send it to the Home Office lab, with the other evidence.'

'OK. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, now, gentlemen,' Lestrade stood up and indicated the way out. Sherlock gave him a look of incredulity.

'I'm sorry, guys, but this is a crime scene and it must be sealed off.'

'Greg, Mycroft's people have been over this place with a fine tooth comb. Every last atom of evidence has been gathered, bagged, tagged and removed for further testing, apart from the case and you're just about to do that. How can you justify asking us to leave?' John demanded.

'Look, John, you know how it is at the moment,' Lestrade replied. 'We have to do it by the book. I don't like it any more than you do. Please, don't make it harder than it is already.'

John turned to Sherlock and said,

'Come on, mate. Let's get out of here.'

He put his hand on his friend's arm and manoeuvred him out of the flat. Out in the street, Sherlock seemed at a loss as to what to do next so John took charge and steered him round the crescent to the main road, where he hailed a passing cab. Neither man spoke, on the way back to Baker Street, and once inside the building, Sherlock went straight upstairs, whilst John knocked on Mrs Hudson's door, to break the news to her of the kidnapping.

When he walked into Sherlock's sitting room, the detective was standing at the window, gazing out into the night.

'Where the hell are they, John?' he asked. 'It's like they just disappeared into thin air. How could we let this happen?' Sherlock had never felt so impotent.

'Hard as this is going to be, Sherlock, we're just going to have to wait for this woman to contact us,' John replied. 'She must have some demands. Why else would she have taken them? If she was just going to kill them, surely she would have done it in the flat or even outside the flat. She needn't even have blagged her way in, need she? No, she will have some demands. They are hostages. And people who take hostages always have demands. She will call.'

Sherlock had turned towards John and the two men now stared at one another until John looked away, went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. It was going to be a long night, so they would need sustenance.

John woke up with a stiff neck from sleeping in the chair all night. He looked round the room. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Then he heard a noise from the stairwell and Sherlock appeared on the landing, carrying a bag of croissants, a bacon sandwich and a litre of milk, from the sandwich bar next door. Living alone had, it would seem, forced Sherlock to become at least partly domesticated.

He took some plates from a cupboard, arranged the food on them and placed them on the kitchen table, then set about making a pot of coffee. John staggered into the kitchen, sat at the table and rubbed his hands over his scalp before picking up a sandwich and tucking in. They were half way through breakfast when Sherlock's phone rang. It was Mycroft.

'I've emailed some information to you about Moriarty's mother. I've sent it to Lestrade, also. I take it there has been no contact?'

'None at all,' Sherlock replied.

'Well, look at what we have and then get back to me if anything occurs. The divers have been busy all night but nothing to report, yet.' Mycroft closed the connection.

Sherlock booted up his laptop and opened the email. The first attachment was a PDF file of Moriarty's birth certificate. It stated his mother's name as Bernadette Jamieson. There was no father's name listed but the child's name was given as James Moriarty. The next attachment was a copy of a passport application, in the name of Bernadette Jamieson, dated five years previously. The photograph was clearly recognisable as the woman who had shown up at Molly's flat the day before.

The next file was a CCTV image taken from a P and O ferry from Dublin to Liverpool, four weeks earlier, which showed Ms Jamieson boarding the ferry, in Dublin, as a foot passenger.

Sherlock opened the next attachment. It was a CCTV image of the same woman getting out of a Ford Transit van at the Hilton Park service station, south bound, on the M6, near Birmingham. The image was black and white so the colour of the vehicle could not be determined and, although the registration plate was clearly visible, a note on the document stated that the plates were false. This particular plate was registered to a different make and model entirely.

The final attachment was an MI5 document which showed a comparison of the foot prints found at the East India Dock Basin and a partial foot print taken from the Minton-tiled hallway in Molly's flat. They were a match.

Sherlock sat back in his chair and took his hands to his mouth, in the prayer position, whilst he considered this information. So, she was Moriarty's mother, she had been living somewhere in the UK for a month and she had acquired her vehicle on the main land. She had been at the basin, the day before and had, in all likelihood, thrown William's shoes into the water.

Unfortunately, this only confirmed what they already knew. It did not provide any new leads, other than the woman's name but there were no guarantees that she was still using that name so it may or may not be useful. However, Mycroft had stated, in the email, that they were circulating her photograph to all hotels, motels and letting agencies in the London area. Someone must recognise her. As Sherlock and John mulled over this data, Sherlock's text alert sounded. He opened his message box and read the text. It said:

 _Sleep well, Mr Holmes?_

The number was withheld. Sherlock showed it to John, who, having read it, took out his own mobile and called Lestrade.

'She's made contact,' he said. After a short pause, while he listened to the reply, he said, 'OK,' and cut the call.

'He says to come to the Yard.'

ooOoo


	18. Life After Death Chapter Eighteen

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Three – Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter Eleven**

In the small hours of the night, William had awoken, needing to use the toilet. Their captor had not thought to provide any sanitation, so Molly scooted across the floor to the front of the shed, with William in her lap and encouraged him to take a pee in the corner. She could tell by the strong odour of his urine that her little boy was already a little dehydrated so, when they got back to their original position, she gave him the rest of the water to drink from the first bottle, just taking another small swig herself. After that, she put him back in the hold-all and sang him back to sleep.

She needed to warm herself. Scooting about the floor had helped, though the pain caused by the cable ties was almost unbearable, but as soon as she lay down again, the cold began to seep back into her bones. She lay on her side, in the foetal position and practised some dynamic tension, tensing and relaxing all her muscles, to try to generate some heat. It worked, to a degree, but it was physically tiring and it made her thirsty so, after a few minutes, she stopped, closed her eyes and, eventually, fell asleep from sheer mental exhaustion.

In the morning, Molly awoke, feeling cold and stiff, following a very uncomfortable night in the metal shed. She turned on the torch and looked at her watch. It was nine in the morning. She lay still, listening for any sounds from outside, but could hear nothing. She wondered if it was worthwhile banging on the walls of her jail, to try and attract someone's attention and decided she might make a game of this for William, once he was awake. She didn't want to start banging now, as she knew it would alarm him. She closed her eyes again and tried not to think about what Bernadette intended to do with them.

ooOoo

John and Sherlock walked into Lestrade's department at New Scotland Yard. All the officers on the Serious Crime team watched Sherlock as he went by. Some of the squad were new, posted during Sherlock's three year absence, so only knew him by reputation and, needless to say, he had received mixed reviews. He, for his part, seemed oblivious to the stares but John, feeling aggrieved on his behalf, returned some of them with warning glares. After exchanging brief greetings, Lestrade got down to business.

'Show me the message.'

Sherlock opened it up and handed his phone to the DI, who glanced at it, then called over an officer whom John did not recognise.

'See what you can do with this,' said Lestrade and passed the phone to the new man, who took it back to his work station.

'Right, let's bring you up to speed,' Greg began, gesturing to two chairs adjacent to his desk, inviting John and Sherlock to sit. John accepted. Sherlock walked over to the window and looked out at the building opposite, remembering three and a half years back and the message written there by the master criminal and well-known psychopath, his arch-Nemesis, James Moriarty. Who could have guessed that Jim would still come back to bite him, from beyond the grave, after all Sherlock had gone through to avoid this very scenario? Lestrade was talking. He needed to listen.

'We ran the finger prints – absolutely no form at all. Once we got the name from Mycroft, we contacted the Garda in Dublin and they ran a check. She is completely clean, not even a parking ticket. They gave us an address. She lives in a little village, just outside Dublin. Nice house in a nice area. Moriarty was clearly a good son in providing for his mum, who is a regular attendee at the local church, Women's Institute, you name it. She is Mrs Pillar of the Community.

However, she is clearly not as innocent as she appears because she managed to get her hands on a gun from somewhere and we are guessing she did not bring it through Customs, so she must have sourced it here. Similarly, with the jammer device – we just received this through from Mycroft's tech guys.'

Lestrade showed John a print out on the device that had blocked the Wi-Fi, radio and mobile phone signals in and around Molly's flat.

'It's similar in design and function to the kind of system used by factories, shops and schools to block the use of mobile and smart phones on their premises but this is clearly intended for illicit use. Not the sort of thing you can buy down at your local IT shop.'

'Then there are the false plates on the van. You can't just walk into any old scrap yard and buy old plates, or get them made up, without proof that you own the vehicle they are registered to. So, it leads me to suspect that Mr Moriarty was a bit of a chip off the old block.'

'She's been in the UK for a month. Have there been any sightings since the motorway services?' John asked.

'Nothing, so far. We've run those plates through traffic camera records but they haven't shown up, which makes me think she's changed them again. She is covering her tracks very well.'

At that juncture, Sgt Donovan arrived, carrying a tray of coffees. She put two on the desk for Lestrade and John then walked over to Sherlock and offered the last one to him. He gave her a look of surprise. She made a small grimace and a shrug and, as he took the proffered mug, she patted his arm. It would seem even Sally Donovan had a heart somewhere.

The new young officer returned with the phone and Lestrade looked at him, inquiringly.

'We have a number but it is an unregistered PAYG, with an Irish international code. We can get a fix on where it was last used, though it will take time. Obviously, if she texts again, we can try to trace it but it would be more likely to succeed, if she called.' He completed his report.

'OK, do what you can,' Lestrade instructed. The officer turned and offered Sherlock his phone. He took it, with a nod of thanks.

'She probably won't use that phone again,' Sherlock said, from his place by the window. 'She'll have anticipated our actions. She's planned this very carefully and isn't likely to make such a basic error.'

'What's next, then?' asked John.

Lestrade summed up.

'The photo and the name are still circulating around hotels, guest houses and letting agencies, also car hire companies in Liverpool, especially round the docks, and shops and public places in Poplar and the Isle of Dogs, as well as in the vicinity of Molly's flat, to see if anyone recognises her or van. The likelihood is, she's using a false name.

We haven't involved the media yet. We don't want to panic her into doing something stupid. Other than that, we just have to wait for her to make contact again. Traffic cameras are still on alert for the number plate, just in case it's still in use.'

There seemed little more that could be done. John looked at his watch, got up and walked over to Sherlock.

'Look, I'm sorry, mate, but I really have to go to work.' Sherlock nodded, in reply. 'I'll keep my phone on silent in my pocket. If anything happens, call, OK?' Sherlock nodded again. John clapped him on the shoulder, nodded to Lestrade and left.

Sherlock stood by the window a little longer, sipping his coffee and wracking his brains. In the old days, he would have been straight on to the Homeless Network but, after being 'dead' for three years or more, he wondered if there still was a Homeless Network.

 _Only one way to find out_ , he thought, turning and putting down his mug on Lestrade's desk. He would go to some of the old haunts and see whether any of the old faces were still around. He walked out of the office, without a word of farewell. Lestrade watched him go and didn't even bother to ask where he was going. He probably wouldn't give a straight answer.

ooOoo

William woke up and climbed out of the bag, feeling around in the dark and calling for his mummy. Molly awoke from her light sleep, found the torch on the blanket and switched on the beam. It was still quite bright, so no need to wind it again, yet. She fed William another banana and some chocolate for breakfast.

If she was going to ration the water, it would be best to do it methodically, to keep tabs on how much was being consumed. So, cracking open a second bottle of water, Molly managed to pour half the contents into the empty bottle from the night before without spilling too much, despite having her hands tied together. She gave William one half-bottle to drink and, resealing the other, put it back in the plastic bag.

William was getting fractious. He was very dependent on routine and this was anything but. He was finding the darkness distressing, too, as it was limiting his sensory stimulation. The lack of occupation was telling on his mood, also. Molly sat him in her lap and tried to engage him with finger rhymes and other nursery games but there were only so many times one could go 'round and round the garden, like a teddy bear,' before it lost its appeal.

She sang to him, rocking him, as she had when he was a colicky baby and in need of the physical comfort and warmth of her body to ease the vicious cramps in his tiny tummy. William responded by putting a thumb in his mouth, grasping his ear lobe with thumb and forefinger of his other hand and cuddling into her, regressing right back to those earlier days of his short life.

ooOoo

Sherlock exited New Scotland Yard and walked along Vitoria Street, across Westminster Bridge and along the South Bank, past County Hall and the London Eye, to Waterloo Bridge. He scrutinised the faces of all the homeless people he spotted along the way but recognised none of them. Significantly, they did not seem to recognise him, either.

On reaching the British Film Institute, he took a seat at an outside table at the riverside restaurant and ordered a double espresso. As he sat, inhaling the aroma of his coffee and scanning the passing crowds for a familiar face, he spotted a girl standing by the parapet which bounded separated the promenade from the river. He knew her and he could see that she knew him.

Sherlock finished his coffee, left the money on the table and strolled, nonchalantly, across to lean on the parapet and look down onto the foreshore – stranded now, as it was low water on this tidal river. The girl sidled up to him, leaving a person-sized gap between them, so as not to appear too obvious.

'Bloody hell, Mr 'Olmes, we all thought you was dead,' she muttered, gazing up river, ''til we saw the newspapers, the other week, o' course.'

'It's good to see a friendly face,' he replied, looking across the water, towards the Savoy Pier. 'I need your help.'

'Always 'appy to oblige', she replied.

He reached into his pocket and removed the folded bank note he had prepared earlier, which concealed a copy of the full face image of Bernadette Jamieson.

'I need to find this woman, urgently,' he said. 'Two people's lives depend on it.' He turned to look directly at the girl.

'Got any spare change, sir?' she asked.

'Sure,' he replied and pressed the folded note into her out-stretched hand.

'God bless you, guvnor,' she smiled.

Sherlock pushed off the wall and strolled away, towards the steps which led up onto the bridge, where he hailed a cab to take him home.

As he let himself in to 221 Baker Street, Mrs Hudson met him in the hall way.

'Any news, dear?' she asked, full of concern.

'You'd be the first to know,' he replied.

'I've left some sandwiches in your fridge. You make sure you eat them,' she urged then reached out and caught him in a tight hug. Until that moment, he hadn't even realised just how much he needed a hug. He put his arms around her and hugged her back, feeling like a small child.

Upstairs, he stood at the window, chewing the sandwiches, out of loyalty to the lady who had thought to make them, and reflecting on the current situation. He rarely questioned his own judgement but this was one occasion when he wished he had been wrong about something. He had always believed that love was a dangerous emotion and parental love, it would seem, was the most dangerous of all, effectively paralysing his logic function at the very time he needed to be at his most incisive. He could only hope that everyone else involved in the hunt was on top of their game.

ooOoo

Molly was facing a second night in her blacked out prison. The day had been bad enough. The hours had dragged on and on. She had scooted on her backside to the front of the box and listened at the door for any sound of human activity, but to no avail. Wherever this place was, it was not a well-populated area.

On the off-chance, she had taken off her shoes, given one to William and banged on the side of the box, encouraging him to join in. But the metal box had amplified the sound around them, like being inside a drum, and had made William scream, drop his shoe and hold his hands over his ears. It had taken a long time to calm him and almost as long to find her missing shoe, in the pitch dark.

It was getting more difficult to persuade William to eat the banana and chocolate diet. He kept pushing it away and crying. In the end, she gave up and ate it herself. She was feeling light headed from lack of food but eating made her feel nauseous because of the tension in her stomach. The thing they both wanted most was water but that was the one thing she had to withhold.

William had already drunk half of their supply of water and they had only been here for one day. He kept asking for more, and cried piteously when she had to deny him. When she eventually managed to get him to sleep, she curled up on her now soiled blanket and shook with sobs, as quietly as she could.

She was beginning to feel the effects of dehydration. Her skin felt dry and papery, her mouth and lips were parched, she had pains in the region of her kidneys and her bladder was beginning to burn. And although she sobbed, her eyes were dry and sore. She felt weak, lethargic and light-headed. She knew her blood pressure was dropping due to loss of fluid content. She had to drink but she dared not take more than a few sips of water. William needed the water.

Even as she had this thought, she could see the flaw in her logic. If she became incapacitated due to dehydration, William would not be able to look after himself so she owed it to him to keep as healthy as possible but she feared running out of water, so she stuck to her resolve, even knowing it could be a serious error of judgement.

The persistent cold and her inability to move around were taking their toll too. The chill was unrelenting. Her joints and muscles ached and she felt so frigid she couldn't even shiver. Lying on the blanket, which felt damp and clammy and no longer seemed to offer any insulation from the heat-sapping metal floor, Molly was beginning to succumb to hypothermia. She began to believe that the Moriarty woman had no intension of ever coming back for them, that she was going to leave them here to die.

ooOoo

John finished his shift at St. Mary's and speed dialled Sherlock's iPhone. He answered immediately.

'Any news?' John asked.

'They found the shoes,' Sherlock reported. 'They fished them up out of the silt this afternoon. They're being checked for trace but I'm pretty sure anything that might have been there will be degraded after 24 hours in the water. And the phone was last used in South Ockenden so they are concentrating their attentions there, showing the photo and asking about the name, but nothing yet.' He sounded very despondent. He sounded like a danger night.

 _Oh, shit_ , thought John. He could only imagine what a state of nervous anxiety Sherlock might be in, after a day of such frustration and inactivity.

'Look, man, I need to go home, change my clothes, and check in with Mary. Why don't you meet me there, have some supper? We can put our heads together, see if we've over-looked something.'

'I won't be good company, John.'

'Nobody's expecting you to be. It's got to be better than sitting in that flat, all on your own. Just meet me there.'

John hung up before Sherlock could argue and rang Mary to tell her to expect an extra guest for dinner.

Sherlock exited 221 and was standing on the doorstep, looking up and down the street for a cab, when he saw the girl from the South Bank walking along the pavement towards him. He walked up to meet her and she reached out, putting the bank note he had given her that morning into his hand.

'What's this?' he asked. 'I'm sorry, Mr 'Olmes, but nobody has seen 'ide nor 'air of 'er. The woman must be invisible. I can't take your money,' she explained. Sherlock pressed the note back into her hand.

'I don't do payment by results, only by effort,' he replied. 'Please keep looking.'

She nodded and walked on.

ooOoo

Sherlock, John and Mary spent the evening brainstorming possible lines of enquiry but could not come up with anything new. John was convinced the kidnapper was stalling deliberately, to ramp up the tension.

'She'll make contact again,' he insisted.

Having demolished two bottles of wine between them, during the course of the evening, it was agreed that Sherlock should stay the night in the spare room and they all retired around midnight. At about six, the next morning, Sherlock was awoken from a disturbed night of little sleep by the text alert on his phone. It was her again.

'Not sleeping so well then, Mr Holmes,' it read.

The number was blocked, as before. He got up, redressed and slipped out of the flat without disturbing his hosts. He would have time to go home, shower and change before returning to the Yard to have the text traced.

ooOoo

William was awake and crying but Molly could not find the strength to sit up. She called his name in a feeble croak and he climbed out of the bag and came to her.

'Get the food bag, baby,' she whispered, weakly. She felt the torch under her ribs and, pulling it out, switched it on. The beam was not bright but strong enough to show William where the grocery bag was. He brought the bag to her, much lighter now that half the water and food were gone. Molly felt inside the bag and pulled out a bottle, cracked it open and gave it to William. She pulled out and opened the last bottle, too, and sucked at the spout, taking three big mouthfuls. It barely seemed to scratch the surface of her thirst.

She didn't stop William drinking – she didn't have the strength – so he polished off nearly all the contents of his bottle without even pausing for breath. Having slaked his thirst, he was far more amenable to eating and felt in the bag until he found the last banana. He held it towards Molly, saying,

'Openit, Mummy, p'eade.'

Molly took the banana from him and broke open the peel, then he took it back and ate it, slowly.

Molly picked up the torch and, holding it between both palms, wound up the mechanism, as she had before. The beam grew in strength and provided at least some illumination, enough for her to see her son's face. It was covered in dirt and streaked with tear tracks, like a little urchin from a Dickens novel.

Nothing that had ever happened in his short life could have prepared him for this nightmare. She wondered what long-lasting effects all this might have on him but then she wondered whether there would be any long-lasting anything and she had to cut off that line of thought before it over-whelmed her.

William reached inside the bag and took out a bar of chocolate. Picking off the outer wrapper, he bit a chunk off, then took it out of his mouth and pushed it at Molly's chin.

'Mummy, eatitup,' he coaxed.

She opened her lips and took the chocolate into her mouth, where it melted slowly and trickled back out, pooling on the blanket. Her mouth was too dry to swallow and the chocolate felt thick and glutinous, sticking to her palate. But, a greater problem then the lack of hydration was the state of her core temperature, which was dangerously low. Molly drifted out of consciousness whilst William ate his chocolate and sat beside her, like a faithful puppy.

ooOoo

Sherlock handed his phone to the young officer and sat down to wait for him to perform his technological wizardry. A young PC brought the coffee today and Sherlock drank it gratefully, having had no breakfast and slept very badly. Lestrade was busy on another case but took the time out to appraise Sherlock on the report they had received, that morning, about the shoes fished from the basin.

'There were lots of fibres stuck in the tread.'

'What sort of fibres?' Sherlock asked.

'All sorts – wool, cotton, acrylic, you name it,' Lestrade replied.

'Carpet fibres?' Sherlock enquired.

'No, too fine. Clothing, we think,' the DI concluded.

'Clothing – like in the suitcase?' Sherlock mused. He felt more than ever that the suitcase was a clue but he still couldn't work out its significance.

The young officer was back with the phone again.

'It's a different number to yesterday but again, unregistered PAYG with a Republic of Ireland international dialling code. We are working on the location, sir,' he explained, apologetically, and handed Sherlock back his phone.

'She's good at this hide and seek business, I'll say that, for the old bitch,' Lestrade spat, venting his frustration.

'Well, if she's trying to wind me up, it's working,' Sherlock muttered.

ooOoo

Molly was roused from her stupor by the loud, metallic, grinding sound of the doors to her prison opening. The light that flooded in was painful, even through closed lids. William turned away from the daylight glare and buried his face in her shoulder.

'Well, Miss Hooper, you're not looking too good, if you don't mind my saying,' Bernadette observed, in a mocking tone. 'Ah, don't tell me, let me guess. You've been depriving yourself in favour of the wee man, so you have. Well, I might have known. I must commend you on your mothering instincts. That's something you and I have in common, isn't it? Wouldn't we both do anything for our children?'

Molly could hear her words but they were not making much sense. She heard footsteps approaching, amplified by the bones of her skull, in contact with the metal floor. She tried to open her eyes and raise her head but she was just too cold, too weak.

'Well, you'll be pleased to hear that your little man is going on another adventure with his Auntie Bernadette,' the woman advised her, reaching down to catch hold of William by his upper arm.

He reacted, instantly. He went stiff and screamed at the top of his lungs. As the woman tried to pull him away from his mother, he clung on to her coat lapels, with a fierce tenacity, screaming,

'No! No! Mummy! No!'

Molly tried to muster enough energy to lift her arms and fend the woman off but she was pinned to the floor by the weight of William's frantic little body.

Bernadette tried to peel William's fingers off his mother's coat but he just gripped tighter, with a surprising strength, enhanced by desperation and terror. Losing patience, the woman grabbed him by his dressing gown collar and shook him violently.

William was shocked into paralysis by this unprecedented assault on his person. He stopped screaming abruptly and went completely limp. The woman picked him up and carried him out of the shed, oblivious to Molly's frail attempts to reach out towards him. Having secured William in the front seat of the van, Bernadette returned to stand by Molly's side.

'Well, Miss Hooper, it has been a pleasure meeting you,' she said. 'I only wish it could have been in different circumstances but, sadly, that was not to be. I don't think you will be needing these, any more,' she said, picking up the grocery bag, 'or these,' picking up the hold-all, and she left, again, to stow the two items in the back of the van.

When she returned this time, she was carrying a smart phone. She squatted down on the floor and took a couple of photographs of Molly and it was then that she noticed the filthy blanket, lying underneath her.

'Oh, Miss Hooper, now that's cheating!' she said, in a parody of mirth.

She grabbed the end of blanket and yanked it out from under Molly's recumbent body. It took a couple of tugs but, eventually, it was free, leaving Molly sprawled directly on the cold metal floor. As the blanket came free, the wind-up torch, propelled by the force of the release, flew across the shed and hit the side wall,

'Goodbye, Miss Hooper,' the woman said, as she walked out of the shed, retrieving the torch as she went. The doors clanged shut, leaving Molly alone and barely conscious.

ooOoo

Sherlock, in a cab on his way back to Baker Street, heard his text alert sound. Tasking out his phone, he opened the text - a single image of Molly, lying curled on her side, on a bare floor. The resolution was poor and the image grainy but it was most definitely Molly and she looked in a very poor state.

The caption read,

 _Do you love your woman, Mr Holmes?_

Sherlock barked at the cabby to turn around and take him back to the Yard, then he rang John's number, which was answered almost straight away.

'She's sent me a photo of Molly,' Sherlock said, his voice staccato and clipped, as though he was having trouble breathing.

'Where are you now?' John asked.

'In a cab, going back to Lestrade,' answered Sherlock.

'I'll meet you there,' John declared and broke the connection.

Half an hour later, all three men sat in Lestrade's office, in a heightened state of readiness. It was obvious to everyone that things were about to kick off. They were just waiting for the starting gun to fire.

ooOoo


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Three – Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter Twelve**

Sherlock's iPhone rang out. He switched it straight to speaker and said,

'Sherlock Holmes.'

'Do you love your son, Mr Holmes?'

The voice was distorted, disguised, filtered through some electronic process to render it unrecognisable. It could not even be identified as male or female, but Sherlock thought he detected a hint of a Dublin accent and was in no doubt as to the identity of the caller.

'I will not dignify that question with an answer,' he stated, his tone acid.

'Then I imagine you would be willing to do anything in order to secure his freedom,' the caller replied.

'How do I know you really have him?' Sherlock challenged.

Almost immediately, his phone beeped with a text alert. He flicked over to 'Message' and opened the text. William's face gazed at him, his eyes, luminous with unshed tears, staring from a very grubby face, stained by the tracks of tears previously shed. Sherlock strained to keep all emotion out of his voice.

'What did you have in mind?' he asked.

'I'm willing to consider an exchange,' came the reply.

'I'm listening,' Sherlock countered.

'I'm sending you a map reference, Mr Holmes. You will come there and I will exchange your son for you,' the voice continued.

'I see a fatal flaw in your plan already,' Sherlock replied, increasing the acidity still more. 'Do you expect my two year old to find his way home on his own?'

'If you will allow me to continue, Mr Holmes, I will explain how this exchange is to be conducted.' The voice sounded a little agitated.

Sherlock waited in silence for the explanation.

'Your associate, Dr Watson, will accompany you to the meeting place and he will take responsibility for the child. You will come with me. Do you approve this arrangement?' the voice asked.

'I hardly think the word 'approve' is appropriate but I do accept your terms,' Sherlock answered.

'Be warned, Mr Holmes. There is to be no police presence. At the first sign of any boys in blue, the meeting will be cancelled and you will not see your child again – alive, at least.'

'Send the map reference,' Sherlock snapped and closed the connection.

The silence in the room burst, in a flurry of activity. The officers charged with the task of tracing the call began furiously tapping the keys of their computers, Sgt Donovan began speaking urgently into her phone, DI Lestrade turned to Sherlock and John, shaking his head, about to launch into a strong argument against the meet but Sherlock silenced him with a raised hand. He was going to keep this appointment, regardless of what anyone else might say.

At that moment, his text alert sounded again and he opened the message. A grid reference appeared on the screen and the words:

 _Come at once._

ooOoo

John and Sherlock sat side by side in the back of the black cab, Sherlock gazing out of the window at the passing scenery, John glancing repeatedly at his friend, worry etched in every line of his face.

'You do understrand that this is a trap, don't you, Sherlock?' John finally blurted out.

'Of course,' Sherlock replied and lapsed back into silent contemplation of the scenic beauty of the A1089, approaching Tilbury Docks. The taxi slowed and turned right off Ferry Road, into a seemingly derelict industrial estate. On either side of the unnamed road were empty warehouses - decrepit buildings, falling into deeper decay, a 'brown field' site, beloved by property developers everywhere, sitting silent and dark, just waiting to be bought up and redeveloped into stylish homes, out of town shopping centres or leisure parks. With the current recession, this one would probably have a long wait. The cab pulled up outside a large warehouse.

'You sure this is the place, gents?' the cabby asked, dubiously.

Sherlock was already out of the cab, as soon as it stopped moving. John assured the cabby that this was the place, paid him the hefty fare and thanked him for his trouble, advised the man that he did not need to wait and got out of the cab. The vehicle drove off and Sherlock and John were left in the gathering gloom of the early evening. As the red tail lights of the departing cab disappeared from view, Sherlock's text alert sounded.

'Here at last,' it read. 'Come inside, Mr H.'

The two men walked toward the enormous doors of the warehouse, designed to allow access for lorries and other large vehicles. These were securely locked but a pedestrian door allowed them access. They stepped through the door and paused so their eyes could adjust to the dim interior of the abandoned warehouse.

Inside was a large open expanse, with a triple height ceiling, punctuated by shattered sky lights, which allowed a view of the early evening stars, just becoming visible, in the darkening sky. The concrete floor was littered with the detritus of the building's former purpose - including abandoned forklift trucks and stacks of empty wooden pallets. In the gloomy recesses of the warehouse, they could discern a sort of prefabricated shed, which presumably had been the nerve centre of this operation, when it had been a thriving business.

Sherlock's phone chirruped again. The message read, 'Dr Watson will wait by the doors. You will keep walking forward.'

Sherlock signalled for John to stay put whilst he continued to advance into the middle of the internal space. A movement near the 'office' caught his eye. A figure stepped out of the shadows, into view.

It was a female shape but it was not Molly. The person was holding William by the hand and the little boy trailed behind, confused and listless, passively accepting whatever his fate might be. The gap between Sherlock and the kidnapper and her victim had closed to about forty yards when the woman suddenly called out,

'Stop there, Sherlock Holmes!'

Sherlock halted, noting that William's chin lifted slightly at the sound of his father's name.

'I'm going to send the child to you,' Bernadette declared. 'You may say your goodbyes but don't take all day. Send him on to Dr Watson,' she barked.

She released William's hand and gave him a push in the back. He stumbled forward, under the force of the push, but came to a halt, not sure what he was supposed to do. Sherlock went down on one knee and, spreading his arms wide, called out,

'William! Come to daddy!'

The little boy looked, expectantly, in the direction of the voice and began to run towards the sanctuary of his father's open arms. As he came close, Sherlock reached forward and scooped William up, pulling him into his embrace, as a surge of emotion rose from the depths of his soul.

But, even as he clasped the child to his heart, he caught a sharp movement in the corner of his eye, as the woman's arm came up, extended forward, with the glint of dull metal at its extremity. As Sherlock rose to his feet, holding William tight, he spun on his axis, to place his own body between the child and the woman.

A gun shot sounded, its sharp crack amplified by the hollow interior of the building, causing Sherlock's ears to ring. Almost instantly, he felt the impact of a bullet, hitting him between his shoulder blades with the force of a wrecking ball, hurling him forward. As he was thrown through the air, he twisted like a tumbler to land on his back, with the little boy on top of him. He hit the concrete ground so hard that stars exploded in his vision and he began to lose consciousness, though he fought, with every ounce of strength he could muster, to maintain control of all his faculties.

As the sound of the first shot rang in his ears, a second shot reverberated from the walls, floor and ceiling of the empty building. The woman was hit in the shoulder and spun around, as she was thrown backwards, onto the ground. Then the scene erupted into motion as uniformed police seemed to pour in from every direction.

Several officers, carrying assault rifles, converged on the recumbent woman, kicking the gun out of her reach and taking aim, as they stood over her. Two plain clothed figures ran toward Sherlock, lying motionless, with his arms spread-eagled, but they were beaten, by a long stretch, by John Watson, who charged from the doorway, sliding to a halt, crouched over his fallen friend. Sherlock was not moving and his eyes were staring blankly at the ceiling above.

'Sherlock! Sherlock! Can you hear me?' John hissed, urgently, pressing his first and second finger tips to the pulse point under Sherlock's jaw. There was a strong, rapid pulse. Sherlock began to gasp and cough, fighting for breath, and William, clinging like a limpet to his father's chest, was bounced up and down by the wracking coughs. John peeled William off his father and, with comforting words, held him close. DI Lestrade and Sgt Donovan reached Sherlock's side and John passed the child over to the woman police officer, who hugged him and rocked him, reassuringly.

The double impact of the bullet and the hard floor had knocked all the air out of Sherlock's lungs and shocked his diaphragm into spasm, making it difficult to draw a breath but normal function was beginning to return. His ears were still ringing, and he couldn't hear what anyone was saying, but his vision was clearing and he could see John's lips moving. He reached out and caught John by the shoulder, trying to pull himself up to a sitting position, feeling exposed and vulnerable lying on the floor.

'Steady on, Rambo. You've just been whacked by a semi-automatic high velocity bullet and thrown about ten yards across a concrete floor. I'd stay down, if I were you. Thank God for Kevlar,' he added, as an aside, to DI Lestrade.

'Where's Molly?' Sherlock rasped. 'Have they found her?'

'Still searching,' Lestrade advised

The final whoop of an ambulance siren, announced the arrival of the first crew of paramedics, who were directed to attend to the kidnapper, still under armed guard on the other side of the building.

'Has she said anything? Ask her where Molly is!' Sherlock wheezed.

'Just as soon as we can,' Lestrade insisted. 'We can't interrogate her 'til she's had medical attention. Good shot, John, by the way. That distance in this light, I don't know how you did it but you managed to hit her clean in the shoulder, nowhere near any vital organs. You're a useful man to have around. But, please, let's keep it between ourselves that you carried and discharged an unlicensed weapon in a public place.'

'I don't know what you're talking about, Greg. Your marksman did a great job, tonight,' John replied, the epitome of innocence.

Sherlock pushed John away and struggled to his feet. He removed his coat and jacket with difficulty, as his hands still shook in reaction to the physical shock to his body. John helped him unfasten the Kevlar vest then insisted on inspecting the bullet's impact area, under his shirt. There was a large reddened patch on his upper back, which would become a very angry bruise over the next few hours.

'Where's William?' Sherlock asked, as he buttoned his coat back up.

'He's fine. He's with Sally. She's very good with children,' Lestrade added, at the look on Sherlock's face.

'The paramedics are giving him the once over,' John explained, 'and they need to see you, too. Come on.'

He virtually dragged Sherlock over to the ambulance, and sat him down, on the steps, to allow the paramedics to check his vital signs and treat the large swelling on the back of his head, where it had hit the concrete floor with such force. Examinations complete, father and son were reunited.

'This baby should go to hospital. He's very dehydrated and by the look and smell of him, he's had a bit of a rough few days. He could go into shock,' the lady in the fluorescent paramedic's jacket advised.

'Don't you have any Dioralyte?' Sherlock asked, rather abruptly. The woman nodded and took a sachet of powder out of a drawer, mixed it with water in a cup with a spout and gave it to Sherlock, to feed to his son, He looked into William's face, which had been wiped clean of the tear stains.

'Are you OK, Will?' Sherlock whispered. The little boy nodded and leaned in to his father's warm shoulder. Sherlock sat hugging his son, both wrapped in a shock blanket, whilst the Port of London and Met police, partners in this joint operation, continued to search the area for Molly. When the ambulance had to leave, Sherlock moved to Lestrade's unmarked police car.

ooOoo

After an hour of thorough searching, it was clear to Sherlock that Molly was not here. He knew they were wasting valuable time. All they had found was a blue Ford Transit van, the one shown in the photograph obtained from the Hilton Park Services CCTV, featuring Bernadette Jamieson.

The rear compartment showed evidence of recent occupation, not the least being some lengths of twine attached to an internal strut and scuff marks where someone had apparently crouched on the floor. To Sherlock, it was obvious that these marks had been made by someone imprisoned in the van, and that that person was Molly, but she was not there now.

Her image, from the texted photograph, was burned on his internal monitor. The longer it took to find the mother of his child, the less likely it was that the outcome would be favourable. He was tormented by fear for her welfare and this boiled over into anger and frustration. Suddenly, he could stand it no longer. Getting out of the car, he strode over to Lestrade, with William on his hip.

'We need to talk to that woman. She has to tell us where Molly is!' he growled, through gritted teeth.

'I need to talk to her, Sherlock, not 'we'. And there are rules about interrogating wounded prisoners. Any break with protocol and the evidence is inadmissible,' Lestrade insisted.

'And which is preferable,' Sherlock snarled, 'inadmissible evidence in a trial for kidnapping or admissible evidence in a murder trial? We don't have time for rules!'

Lestrade had to concede it was a valid point. He heaved a sigh of resignation and called Sally Donovan over.

'We need to go to the hospital, see if we can get anything out of Rosa Cleb,' he told her and waved to John to come, too, as they all climbed into his car.

Lestrade drove and Sgt Donovan rode shotgun, as they headed back along the A1089, away from Tilbury Docks and back towards the A13 and London. John and Sherlock sat in the back seat of the police vehicle, with William in his father's arms, his head resting against Sherlock's chest, listening to the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat. Eyes wide in the gloom of the car, he watched the lights from the street lamps wax and wane.

Sherlock rubbed his cheek against the top of William's head, aware of the pungent scent of stale urine that pervaded his hair and clothes. Suddenly, he felt William tense. The little boy pushed himself up from Sherlock's chest, gazing intently out of the side window of the moving car. He turned his face to look at his father then turned back to the window and, raising his arm, pointing his out-stretched finger at the passing scenery. Sherlock looked in the direction of the child's pointing finger and saw that they were moving past a huge shipping container storage facility.

'What is it, William?' Sherlock asked.

'Mummy,' the little boy whimpered.

'Stop the car!' Sherlock shouted, urgently. 'Stop the car now!'

Lestrade slammed on the breaks and steered to the curb, as following vehicles hooted angrily and veered wildly to avoid colliding with the rapidly decelerating police vehicle. As the car screeched to a halt, Lestrade looked at Sherlock in the rear view mirror.

'What the hell's the matter?' he demanded.

'She's over there. In the container park. There!' Sherlock barked.

'How can you possibly know that?' Lestrade retorted.

'William told me!'

'What? Sherlock, he's just a baby! How…' Lestrade began to protest.

'He's not _just_ a baby, he's MY baby!' snapped Sherlock. 'He notices things. He works things out! Get us into that park!'

Lestrade was momentarily shocked by the vehemence of the detective's outburst but he recovered quickly and, pulling away from the curb, drove down to the container park turn-off and up to the check point. He showed his warrant card to the security guard on duty and the man raised the barrier, to let them drive in.

'Pull in here!' Sherlock ordered, indicating a layby, just inside the entrance. The car had barely rolled to a stop when he opened the rear passenger door and jumped out, with William in his arms. He walked out into the middle of the road, a little away from the car, as the others were climbing out of the vehicle. He turned to his son, sat in the crook of his arm.

'Which way, Will?' he asked, quietly, encouragingly. William pointed down the main road through the park and said,

'Down dere. Mummy down dere.'

Sherlock began to walk down the central route, stopping at every intersection and asking William which way. At each junction, William looked around carefully, studying his surroundings, then pointed one way or another, and Sherlock walked in that direction. John and Lestrade came hurrying after but the DI had to voice his scepticism again.

'What if this is a wild goose chase, Sherlock. Aren't we just wasting time?'

Sherlock rounded on him.

'This is not a wild goose chase. William says his mother is here. And he has been here before. He recognised it. Now, instead of really annoying me, why don't you go and ask that Security Guard to check the gate log and see if that blue ford transit has been in here at all during the last few days, huh?'

John carefully manoeuvred himself between the two men and, laying a hand on Sherlock's arm, said,

'Come on, mate, just calm down. We're all on the same side, here.'

'Actually, Sally is doing just that, right now,' Lestrade muttered, defiantly.

Sherlock turned away and continued his walk down the road, just as Sally Donovan came running up to her boss, saying,

'It's a positive, sir. The van has been in and out of here several times during the last week, at least once a day, sometimes more. It's registered to a charity that collects used clothes to ship them abroad to disaster areas. They own a number of containers stored in the park. Security gave me a list.'

Lestrade looked at the list of serial numbers and their locations.

'But these are all on the other side of the park. Sherlock, we're looking in the wrong place…'

'You go and check them out, then,' Sherlock snarled, then muttered, 'if it'll keep you out of my way.' He walked on. John hurried after him and pulled him round by his elbow. Sherlock glared at him but he pressed on anyway.

'Sherlock, you are staking a great deal on the testimony of a two year old child. Can you not see how irrational this looks?'

'I can see how it looks to you, John,' he snapped, in exasperation. 'But, you know what, when I was a kid, I noticed things, too, but nobody ever took me seriously. They never believed me or even gave me the benefit of the doubt. I remember what that felt like. It felt like shit and I'm not going to do that to him.' Again, he turned and walked on.

At the next junction, Sherlock stopped once more. William, after a good look in all four possible directions, pointed to the right and Sherlock moved off that way. Sally Donovan had been busy mustering the troops and there were several police vehicles manoeuvring round the container park, as Sherlock and William travelled deeper in amongst the rows and rows of containers, stacked three high on all sides.

They came, at last, to another junction and Sherlock stopped but William looked uncertain. He could not decide which way to go. There were so many containers and they all looked the same, except for the colours and the serial numbers written large, in black paint on their doors. William began to look distressed. Sherlock hugged him close and said,

'It's fine, Will, just fine. You've done a great job, this far. Now, listen to daddy. Can you remember the colour of the place where mummy is? What colour is it?'

William closed his eyes, just as Sherlock himself was wont to do, when he visited his Mind Palace. John, still following behind, watched this pantomime with a sense of foreboding. Was the world really ready for another Consulting Detective, especially one that was not even three years old? Then William opened his eyes and said.

'Red!'

'Red? Like this?' Sherlock pointed to a container nearby, showing red under the bright security lights of the park.

'Yet, li'e dat. Red,' William confirmed, then added, 'Mytoff Red.'

The two men peered at the child, each wondering what this new piece of information could mean. What did Mycroft have to do with any of this? John turned as Lestrade approached.

'Anything?' he asked, referring to the containers, rented by the charity, that were being checked out on the other side of the park. Lestrade shook his head – all full of used clothes and nothing else, so far.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade and said,

'We need back up. We need to search the whole of this section. Get some sniffer dogs, and Customs and Excise guys with those carbon dioxide detectors that they use to find illegal immigrants in the backs of lorries. And tell them to concentrate on the red ones.'

'Look, Sherlock, this is a huge place, this park,' Lestrade reasoned. 'It could take days to do a thorough search and we just don't have….'

This was one objection too many for Sherlock. He snapped.

'So stop wasting FUCKING time and call in some FUCKING back up!'

In all the time that Lestrade had known Sherlock Holmes he had never heard him swear – ever - so it was particularly shocking to hear him shout these words right in his face.

John stepped in front of his friend and pushed him away from the DI.

'Ok, Sherlock, that's enough. You're frightening the baby.'

Sherlock looked into his son's wide staring eyes and felt instantly mortified. He hugged him tighter and whispered,

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry.'

William wrapped his arms around his father's neck and said,

'Don' cry, daddy. Mummy come soon.'

John patted his friend's arm in sympathy and wished he had the ability to sniff out carbon dioxide, himself.

'We will find her, Sherlock,' he said.

'I know we'll find her, John, because I know she is here but I wonder, will we find her in time?' Sherlock replied, his voice cracking.

John looked back up the road, in the direction that Lestrade had taken, after Sherlock's outburst. He saw a sleek black car gliding noiselessly towards them. It drew to a sedate halt and the chauffeur jumped out to open the rear passenger door so that Mycroft Holmes could step out. Friends in high places, thought John. We won't want for resources now.

After a brief conflab with Lestrade, Mycroft came over to John and Sherlock and took charge of his brother. He took him and his nephew and installed them in the comfortable interior of the limo. After a short discussion with Sherlock, it was agreed that a car would be sent for Mrs Hudson and that she should take William home to Molly's flat, which had been cleared for reoccupation, and get him fed, bathed and put to bed.

In less than an hour, Mrs Hudson arrived and took the child, who had fallen asleep in his father's arms. Sherlock and Mycroft then sat in silence in the back of the plush saloon whilst John sat up front, next to the driver and they waited.

Eight dog teams had arrived, in the meantime and spread out through the park, looking for evidence of human occupation, and the C and E guys were busy pushing their CO2 probes into all the red containers, extending out in a regular spiral pattern from the point where William had lost his bearings.

It was just over an hour later when a shout went up. John jumped from the car and ran off to find out what was happening. Within seconds he was back.

'They've found something,' he said.

Sherlock was out of the car and running towards the source of the consternation. He arrived at the large red container, just as they were swinging open the door, having sawn through the lock. Written in foot high characters on the door of the box was the serial number MY-65832. William had been right on both counts – Mycroft Red.

One of the officers shone a torch into the dark interior and it illuminated a body, huddled in the far corner, wearing a camel coloured coat, her wrists and ankles bound with cable ties. Sherlock rushed inside and dropped down next to Molly. She felt icy cold – hypothermic. John was right behind him but pushed him out of the way and called for a light so that he could examine her properly.

Her lips were dry and cracked, her skin papery, through dehydration. She had a bruise above her right eyebrow and a cut which had trickled blood down her cheek but it had dried long since. A dark patch on her left cheek turned out to be a smear of chocolate, her wrists and ankles were chaffed raw by the cable ties.

The ties could only be removed with sharp scissors, which John did not have, so they would have to leave them in place for now. Other than that, so far as he could see, she had no obvious injuries, though the dehydration and, most especially, the hyperthermia were more than enough to be going on with.

She needed to get to hospital as soon as possible. John called out for someone to summon the air ambulance. They would need to find a convenient place to land the helicopter and to move Molly to that more open space.

Pulling off his coat, Sherlock laid it on the floor of the container and lifted Molly, very gently, onto it then wrapped her in it, picked her up and carried her, carefully, to Mycroft's car. He climbed in to the back seat, cradling her in his arms. Mycroft flipped down the folding seat behind the driver and sat down whilst John flipped down the one on the passenger side and sat, too.

'She needs water,' John said, urgently, as the chauffeur began to drive slowly back towards the entrance gates, smoothly and evenly, so as not to jar the fragile passenger inside.

Mycroft reached across and opened a minibar in the armrest of the back seat, removed a bottle of spring water, unscrewed the lid and handed it to Sherlock. He tilted the bottle against Molly's parched lips. But they were so dry the water just ran off them and dribbled down her cheek, not penetrating into her mouth.

Sherlock thought for a brief moment, his eyes flicking from side to side in a rapid nystagmus, following his chain of thought, then he took a swig of water from the bottle, placed his mouth over hers, to create a seal, and let the water seep through his lips onto hers. She tasted of chocolate.

As her lips slowly rehydrated, he used the tip of his tongue to ease them apart, so that the water trickled into her mouth, moistening her tongue, which was stuck to her palate. The water seeped to the back of her throat and she swallowed, reflexively. Her eyes flickered open, briefly and she looked into his but without any sign of recognition, then she closed them again.

Taking another swig and then another and another, Sherlock fed Molly a third of the bottle of water, warmed to body temperature inside his mouth, as the car moved toward the main road. The air ambulance helicopter could be seen and heard, circling overhead, turning into the wind in order to land.

ooOoo


	20. Life After Death Chapter Twenty

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Three – Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter Thirteen**

Sherlock stood in the hospital room, over by the window, watching the nursing staff attend to Molly. She had been the centre of attention of several highly skilled health care professionals from the moment she had been placed under the tender mercies of the air ambulance crew, when it landed on the road outside the main gates to the container storage facility, after the Met Police blocked the traffic in both directions to clear a space.

The paramedics had kept her wrapped in Sherlock's coat, as it had already created a cocoon of warmth around her. They cut off the cable ties and applied temporary dressings to the wounds caused by the constant chaffing. They attached a heart monitor, to detect any sign of hypothermia-induced dysrhythmia, which could lead to cardiac arrest. They put a cannula into a vein on the back of her hand - with some difficulty, since her veins had collapsed due to the dehydration - and put up a warmed saline drip to assist rehydration.

Covered with survival blankets and zipped into an arctic sleeping bag, they laid Molly on a mountain rescue stretcher, before transferring her to the helicopter. Sherlock sat in the bucket seat and watched the paramedics secure the stretcher and then strap themselves in, as the chopper rose and sped away, tilting its nose towards the ground as it gained height and speed.

Less than ten minutes later, it landed on the helipad at the Royal London Hospital, at Whitechapel, where Molly was transferred to the care of the hospital trauma team, who whisked her away into the trauma department. Sherlock was allowed as far as the treatment room door but was then diverted into the family room, which is where John and Mycroft found him, when they arrived by car, almost an hour later.

John went off and cadged three mugs of tea from one of the nursing staff, Mycroft sat quietly in the family room, with his legs elegantly crossed and Sherlock paced restlessly up and down the corridor outside.

After what seemed an age to Sherlock, the trauma doctor came out of the treatment room and approached the three men. He greeted John warmly, recognising him from various seminars they had both attended on Trauma Medicine, shook hands with Mycroft and eyed Sherlock warily, as they all gathered round to hear what he had to say.

Sherlock's brain was whirring far too fast to take in everything the doctor said, most of which he dismissed as platitudes but, in essence, he gathered that Molly's condition was critical but stable. She had suffered extreme hypothermia and serious dehydration, both of which were potentially fatal. She was being treated with warmed, humidified oxygen and heated intravenous saline, was wrapped in warmed blankets and surrounded by heat lamps. She had not suffered cardiac or respiratory arrest but this had not been ruled out yet so she would require constant monitoring and intensive nursing, therefore she had been transferred to the ICU. In order to facilitate maximum healing potential, she had been placed in an induced coma for the time being.

John thanked his colleague for his time and efforts on Molly's behalf, then turned to his companions.

'There's nothing more to be done here tonight, guys. Can I suggest we all go home and try to get some sleep? We can all come back tomorrow.'

Mycroft nodded in agreement and prepared to leave but Sherlock said,

'No.'

'Sherlock, there's nothing to be gained by staying here. You have not slept properly for three nights, that I know of, and you won't be much use to her or William if you're suffering from sleep deprivation. Not even you can go this long without sleep and not suffer negative consequences,' John laid it on the line.

But Sherlock was not to be deterred.

'I'm not leaving, John. You should go and you, too, Mycroft. You both have work tomorrow. I'm staying here, as long as it takes.'

There was no reasoning with him so John asked one of the nursing staff to show him where Molly had been taken, then he and Mycroft left.

Sherlock sat in the easy chair, beside Molly's bed, silent and unmoving, except for his eyes, which either scanned the displays of the various pieces of machinery to which Molly was attached or focused on her face, which was mostly obscured by the oxygen mask, the dressing on her wounded brow and the thermal cap, designed to prevent heat loss through the scalp.

She looked unimaginably small and frail, lying in the bed, swaddled in thermal blankets, her hands and feet wrapped to provide extra insulation for her extremities, the infrared heat lamps giving the whole scene a rather misleading rosy hue. He had been given strict instructions not to make any loud or sudden noises as, in her fragile state even the slightest shock to her system could bring about a cardiac arrest. But he hardly needed telling. He already knew the score.

When the nurses came in, which they did at frequent intervals to check her vital signs and make various recordings or to replace the saline drip, Sherlock retreated to the far side of the room and stood by the window, keeping out of their way, neither speaking to nor making eye contact with any of them, his face a frozen mask. When they left the room, he returned to the chair and continued his silent vigil.

Around the nurses' station, apart from the progress of the patients themselves, he was the sole topic of conversation. They referred to him as 'The Avenging Angel', this intense and beautiful man. He was not like the usual concerned friend or relative. He never asked them how the patient was or any questions about her treatment. He sometimes looked at the chart to see what they had written, after they had left the room. He didn't move around, or doze in the chair. He just sat still and watched her.

They speculated about his relationship with the patient. She was 'Miss' Hooper, so she wasn't his wife. They wondered what she had that could attract and hold such a man and they wondered why they didn't seem to have it.

Eight hours after admission, the heat lamps were taken away and, over the next few hours, the thermal wrapping was reduced, to be replaced by standard hospital bed linen. John looked in around noon prior to going to work at St Mary's and obtained an update from the junior registrar on duty. He passed on the information to Sherlock.

'Her core temperature is back to normal but she's still rehydrating and the toxins that built up in her system due to the dehydration are still being flushed out. Ironically, the hypothermia probably prevented more damage from the dehydration as it slowed down all her bodily functions, a bit like hibernation. They don't think she will have any lasting nerve damage in her fingers or toes, We found her in time. Another few hours and it might have been a different story. They intend to keep her comatose for at least another day.'

Sherlock received this information without giving any sign that he was even listening, but John knew him well enough to know that he had not missed a single nuance or implication of the information he had imparted.

'Sherlock, why don't you go home? Take a shower, change your clothes, at least?'

Sherlock ignored him.

'Well, her mother and sister are on their way. Mycroft rang them. They caught the train this morning and he sent a car to meet them at the station. He's booked them into a hotel nearby for the duration of their stay, which is, at the moment, open-ended.'

This did elicit a reaction. Sherlock groaned inwardly at this news. He looked at John as though he had just admitted to a crime against humanity. He had no desire to be confronted by Molly's family members under these circumstances. Molly had told him about her mother's reaction to the news of her pregnancy. He had no desire to meet that person at all.

'What time are they expected?' he asked, abruptly.

'Any time now,' John replied.

Sherlock stood up, picked up his coat, which had been returned to him the night before, and left the room. As he strode down the ward, past the nurses' station, towards the exit, several pairs of eyes followed him, with looks of awe and wonder. On the street, outside the hospital, he was about to hail a cab when a black 'Mycroft' car pulled up right outside the main hospital entrance and disgorged two women, who both bore a passing resemblance to Molly. Sherlock turned and walked briskly away, in the opposite direction.

ooOoo

Back at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock took a hot shower, shaved and put on clean, fresh clothes. He made some tea and toast and rang Mrs Hudson, at Molly's flat, to find out how William was. Mrs Hudson assured him that William had slept well, right through until lunch time, that he had eaten a good lunch and seemed none the worse for his terrifying ordeal but was really missing his mum. Sherlock advised her that he was coming to see them, before returning to the hospital.

When he arrived at Molly's flat, William was quite subdued but glad to see him. Sherlock reminded him how clever he had been, to remember where Mummy was, and praised him for the brilliant clue – Mycroft Red. He cuddled William for about an hour, while he talked to Mrs Hudson about Molly's condition and treatment and arranged with her that she bring William to the hospital, the next morning, to see his mother. Then he took his leave to return to the hospital.

He was relieved to find, when he arrived back on the ICU, that Molly's mother and sister had left, about an hour earlier. Molly looked exactly as she had before he left. He checked the readings on her instruments, read the progress chart, and settled back into 'vigil mode' in the chair, drawn right up to the bed, now that the heat lamps had been removed.

Several years ago, whilst a student at Cambridge, he had mastered the techniques of power napping and micro sleeps. He could fall asleep for a few seconds, so short a time that no one would even notice, but by using this technique, he could sustain himself for prolonged periods of time without proper sleep. This technique had been employed on many an occasion since and was particularly useful in the present circumstance.

He passed the night, alternating between five minute power naps and much shorter micro sleeps, retreating to the window when the nurses came in to check on Molly's condition or administer treatments. His body and brain were tired but his mind would not let him rest. He felt so responsible for Molly's predicament. He had put her and William in danger. He could not allow himself to rest until that danger had passed and, at present, she was still listed as 'critical'. However, he was fast approaching his own limit of five consecutive sleepless nights.

Next morning, the nurses asked him to step outside the room whilst they gave Molly a blanket bath. It was whilst he was standing in the communal area that his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Mrs Hudson, texting to let him know she was just arriving at the hospital with William. He texted back for her to wait by the front entrance and he strode through the hospital corridors to meet them. William ran to him, as soon as he came into sight.

'Did they say it was alright to bring the baby into the hospital?' Mrs Hudson wondered.

'I didn't ask,' was Sherlock's terse reply.

They returned to the ICU, the tall, enigmatic man with the beautiful face, carrying the equally beautiful child, followed by the elderly lady who, despite her smaller stature, seemed to have no difficulty in keeping up with the long-striding man. As they reached the nurses' station, the ward sister was about to raise an objection to the presence of the child but immediately changed her mind, knowing that it would be a useless gesture.

Mr Hudson stopped at the station while Sherlock continued on, into Molly's room. She turned to the two nurses and the registrar, who were on duty at that time and asked,

'Has he had anything to eat or drink whilst he's been here?'

They all shook their heads.

'Typical,' she declared, 'so busy taking care of everyone else, he never thinks about himself. One of you kind ladies wouldn't mind making him a nice big mug of tea, would you?' she asked, smiling beguilingly. 'White, two sugars?'

ooOoo

When Sherlock brought William into his mother's hospital room, he was relieved to see that Molly no longer had an oxygen mask over her face. Instead, she had two tubes which delivered oxygen to just below her nostrils. This did not look nearly so scary. Sherlock stood by Molly's bed and explained to his son that his mummy was just asleep, that she needed to sleep to get better after being shut up in the container for such a long time.

He showed William the displays on the life signs monitor and explained to him that this one was Mummy's heart rate, this one her breathing rate, this one her blood pressure, pointing out the pieces of apparatus that collected the data and delivered it to the monitor machine. Then he sat on the chair, with William on his knee and let him hold Molly's hand, as it lay, inert, on the bed clothes.

When Mrs Hudson arrived with a large mug of steaming tea, she brought with her the story book that William had insisted on bringing to read to 'poorly Mummy'. It was his current favourite, 'Where the Wild Things Are', the one that had sustained him during his incarceration. Sherlock read the story, in between taking sips of tea, and William provided the sound effects, at the appropriate moments.

When it was time to leave, William said goodbye to Molly, and Sherlock held him up so that he could kiss her on the cheek and give her a gentle hug, then carried him back to the front entrance of the hospital and saw him and Mrs Hudson safely into a cab home, before returning to the ICU. As he passed the nurses' station, he paused and turned his dazzling gaze on the three ladies gathered there.

'Thank you for the tea. It was much appreciated,' he said, in his velvet baritone, then continued back to Molly's bed side. As he disappeared through the door to Molly's room, the ward sister turned to her colleagues.

'Oh, my God,' she gasped, 'I think he just reversed my menopause.'

ooOoo

Sherlock resumed his silent vigil beside Molly's bed. He watched her face, looking for some sign of returning consciousness. He had read in her notes that the medical team had started to decrease the amount of soporific she was receiving, over-night. As the level of medication in her blood stream reduced, she should begin to surface. So far, there was no evidence of this. So he sat and waited, patiently, willing her to respond to his thought waves, if only that were possible.

He suddenly became aware of a noise outside Molly's room and then the door was pushed open and two women entered. Sherlock jumped to his feet and the two women stopped in their tracks. They all stared at one another. Then John Watson appeared behind the women and smiled at him.

'Ah, Sherlock,' he said, genially, 'this is Molly's mum and her sister…'

'I know who they are,' replied Sherlock, abruptly, picked up his coat and, brushing past the startled women, disappeared through the door.

'How rude!' exclaimed Mrs Hooper, as she watched Sherlock's retreating back. 'Who on earth was that?'

'That,' John explained, 'was William's father.'

'Oh, so he's back on the scene, is he? Has he finally decided to take some responsibility for his actions rather than leaving it to his brother to do the decent thing?' Molly's mother scoffed.

John felt rather indignant on his friend's behalf.

'Sherlock has been back in the country for a few months and has been seeing William regularly during that time,' he declared.

'Seeing William? And what about Molly? What has he been doing about her?' Mrs Hooper persisted.

'Molly and Sherlock are friends. They are sharing William's parenting,' John replied, wondering why he felt he had to placate this woman. But then, she was William's grandmother so, he thought, she probably had a right to know the state of play and Molly clearly had not kept her up to date.

'But is his brother still paying the bills?' Mrs Hooper asked, with an affronted look.

'The financial support that Mycroft put in place for William, as well as the purchase of the flat they live in, came from family resources, so it is just as much Sherlock's money as it is Mycroft's', John explained, beginning to feel annoyed with this woman.

'Family resources?' she asked, 'What, you mean like the Mafia?'

'Close enough,' John replied and walked over to the bed to review Molly's chart.

ooOoo

Sherlock caught a cab back to Baker Street and dived straight in the shower. He was privately quite grateful for the presence of Molly's relatives at her bedside, as it gave him a legitimate excuse to take a break. He was desperate for sleep. Coming out of the shower, wrapped only in a towel, he set the alarm on his iPhone for four in the afternoon and lay down on top of his bed. He was asleep almost instantly.

The loud, persistent sound of the alarm eventually penetrated his dreams and he rolled over, groaning and rubbing his eyes. He was cold now, having managed to shed the towel in his sleep, so he was lying naked on top of the duvet. He sat up, reached out for his dressing gown and slipped it on, as he walked from the bedroom into the kitchen.

Mrs Hudson had obviously been back to Baker Street since yesterday and had left some sandwiches, wrapped in cling film, in the fridge, with a note which read 'Eat me!' He made a strong pot of coffee and ate the sandwiches, gratefully. Then he shaved, dressed and left, once more, for the hospital.

He arrived back in Molly's room to find the consultant and his entourage holding court. He walked around to the far side of Molly's bed, removing his coat and scarf, and gave the doctor an enquiring look.

'Ah, Mr…'

'Holmes.'

'Mr Holmes, we believe that Miss Hooper may be regaining consciousness. Her vital signs would certainly indicate this but she might benefit from a little verbal encouragement.'

'By that, I assume that you mean I should talk to her?' Sherlock replied.

'Quite so,' replied the consultant, clearly comfortable in the role of the stereo-typical senior doctor.

Sherlock sat in the chair, took Molly's hand in his and placed his free hand, gently, on top of her head, stroking her temple with his thumb.

'Molly,' said the doctor, before Sherlock could speak. 'Miss Hooper, open your eyes.'

Molly was in a strange place. She had no idea how she got there and she didn't know how long she had been there but she was trying to find her way out. Unfortunately, she seemed to always finish up exactly where she started. This was a weird world, made of nebulous wisps of cloud or white mist, that shifted and moved about, making it difficult to tell where you had been or where you were going. She heard a voice, calling her name. It was not a voice she recognised.

 _Who are you?_ she wondered. _I don't know you. Go away._

She was looking for someone in particular. She was not sure who that person was but she thought she would recognise them when she saw them, or maybe heard them.

'Molly, open your eyes.'

That was the voice she was searching for! She moved towards that voice and tried to open her eyes but the light was so bright, she could not persuade her lids to open.

'Turn off the lights and close the blinds,' Sherlock ordered.

The nurse jumped to it. This man was not the sort that you asked to say 'please'. She drew the blinds, whilst the junior registrar turned the dimmer switch on the wall to lower the lights to a dull glow.

'Open your eyes, Molly Hooper,' said Sherlock, softly, right next to her ear. She turned her head slightly towards him and her eye lids fluttered open. He smiled at her and said,

'Awake, at last.'

She tried to speak but her voice came out as a dry croak. Sherlock reached for the glass of water that had been placed on the bedside cabinet, with a straw protruding from it. He placed the straw between her lips and she gave him a puzzled look.

'You have to suck,' he whispered.

So she did. The water which entered her mouth and slid so sweetly down her throat was the coolest, most delicious thing she had ever tasted. She sucked again and a third time then let the straw slip from her lips. Her eyes glazed over and her lids closed again. Sherlock looked at the consultant.

'That's a good start,' the man said, reassuringly. 'It may take a while but I think she is coming back to us.'

The registrar scribbled some notes on Molly's chart then the medical circus moved on to its next pitch, leaving Sherlock and Molly alone. He replaced the glass of water on the cabinet and he stroked her cheek.

'Come back to us, Molly Hooper,' he whispered. She made no response.

ooOoo

Molly opened her eyes. She was in a room that she did not recognise. There was some sort of machinery over to her right that emitted a regular beeping noise, which she found rather annoying. She could feel something next to her left hand, where it lay at her side, on top of the bed clothes. She moved her fingers. It felt like hair but it wasn't William's hair. His was soft and downy. This hair was more wiry, thicker and longer.

She ran her fingers through the hair and tried to raise her head to see what it was that she was touching. But her head felt heavy and she could not lift it up. However, her movements had disturbed whatever it was that was lying next to her hand because it moved. Sherlock opened his eyes and moved his head. It was lying, on the bed, next to Molly's hand.

He must have fallen asleep, overcome by exhaustion. That four hour nap he had taken in the afternoon had clearly only skimmed the surface of his need for sleep. He felt Molly's fingers combing through his hair and lifted his head, turning to look into her open eyes, which registered recognition and she gave a weak smile.

'Sherlock,' she croaked. He sat up and reached for the water. She moved her hand and croaked again,

'Sit me up, please.'

He looked around for the control device that adjusted the bed, studied the display for a micro-second and pressed the appropriate button. The top third of the bed began to rise slowly. He let it to come up about six inches then stopped it.

'OK?' he asked.

Molly nodded. He put down the control box and took up the water again, offering her the straw, as before. She took a few grateful sips, then asked,

'Where's William? Is he safe?' suddenly concerned.

'He's absolutely fine,' Sherlock reassured her. 'Mrs Hudson's taking care of him. He came to see you this morning.'

'I knew you'd find us,' she breathed.

'No, I didn't find you. I didn't have a clue where you were. William led us almost right to you. He was amazing,' he said, proudly.

'He did? He's so clever. Just like his dad,' she sighed, groggily. Suddenly, her face crumpled.

'I'm so sorry, Sherlock,' she sobbed.

'You are sorry?' he exclaimed. 'What on earth for?'

'I should never have let her in. I was so stupid. How could I have been so gullible? After everything Mycroft has done to keep us safe….' she shook her head, with self-condemnation.

Sherlock held her hand and brushed away the sudden tears with his thumb.

'Don't blame yourself, Molly. The only person to blame for this is that woman. You were just being your kind, caring, considerate self and I wouldn't want you to be any other way,' he soothed.

'Let me tell the staff that you're awake,' he added and reached for the call bell to summon a nurse. 'Don't you go anywhere,' he reminded her, as her eyes began to lose focus and her eyelids to close again.

ooOoo


	21. Life After Death Chapter Twenty One

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Three – Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter Fourteen**

The medical staff needed to carry out a full examination of Molly to assess her readiness to be disconnected from all the equipment and to establish whether the hypothermia had caused any serious nerve damage. As this was likely to take a while, Sherlock took the opportunity to go to the hospital canteen and take on some much needed fuel. Now that the crisis appeared to be over, he felt extremely hungry.

On the way up there, he texted Mrs Hudson, John and Mycroft, to let them know that Molly was more or less conscious. As an afterthought, he also texted Greg Lestrade. He received texts back from everyone, expressing their relief but the one from Lestrade also said that he would be there in a few minutes as they needed to talk.

 _Meet me in the refectory,_ Sherlock texted back.

 _Will do_ , came the reply, and, true to his word, Lestrade arrived a few short minutes later.

'You haven't just come from Scotland Yard,' Sherlock commented, as Lestrade pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, eying Sherlock's plate of food with undisguised envy.

'No. Well spotted, Sherlock,' Lestrade quipped. 'Actually, I've been chatting to the not so lovely Ms Jamieson. She was brought here, too, as it's the nearest specialist trauma hospital to Tilbury. She could be in the next bed to Molly, but for that fact that she's under police guard.'

'Not remotely funny, Lestrade,' Sherlock replied. 'What does she have to say for herself?'

'Not a lot. But, fortunately, a few other people have been very informative.'

'Meaning?' Sherlock prompted.

'The charity which owns the containers came up trumps. Apparently, she contacted them through the W. I. website and arranged to come over and do some voluntary work for them. She told them it was some sort of alternative retreat. Instead of sitting in a nunnery for a month, taking a vow of silence or something, she wanted to collect used clothes from people's doorsteps. The Ford Transit belongs to them - she drove it down from Liverpool as a favour. She changed the plates as and when it suited her purpose. She's been staying in a Catholic women's hostel in Billericay. They reported her missing when she didn't come home night before last.'

'Clever,' Sherlock mused. 'That kept her under the radar. I don't suppose the Homeless Network stretches as far as Billericay. I should do something about that.'

'She's been driving that blue van all around Essex, collecting used clothing and bringing it back to the container park, setting up her cover. Once she gained access, she could source the container for Molly and William,' Lestrade continued.

'And how did she do that?' Sherlock asked.

'All the containers in that section are in need of repair. In fact they are mostly derelict, which is why no one ever goes near them,' the DI explained.

'So why didn't security notice her snooping around?' Sherlock demanded. 'And how did she get William in and out? Molly was obviously in the back of the van when she was taken in but William recognised the place, so he must have been in the cab. How come they didn't notice when she drove in with him but drove out without and vice versa?'

'Well,' Lestrade replied, holding up a placatory hand, 'it would seem that the security gate is not always manned. Due to staff cuts, sometimes there's only one guard on duty and he has to patrol the site once every two hours so, while he does that, the gate is left unattended. Everyone with a legitimate reason to enter the park is given a pass key card, so they can let themselves in and out. The security camera records their number plate and the computer records the use of the key card. We're guessing that Ms Jamieson studied the schedule and came when she knew there'd be no one on the gate.'

'So, something else I can blame on the recession, then – damn, those greedy bankers,' Sherlock cursed, in mock outrage, giving the table a theatrical thump with his fist.

'She wants to speak to you,' Lestrade informed him

'About?' Sherlock asked.

'Won't say. You don't have to see her. It's entirely up to you.'

'Well, why not,' Sherlock replied. There was something irresistible about the idea of confronting this woman who had tried to kill him, his son and his child's mother – this was very personal.

'Well, she's down on the next floor. I can take you now, if you like. I don't think I'll be getting to see Molly any time soon but it's not that urgent to get her statement. It can wait until she's completely recovered.' Lestrade replied.

'OK,' Sherlock agreed, 'but why don't you get something to eat, first. You are practically chewing my food for me. Bernadette won't be going anywhere soon, will she?'

ooOoo

Half an hour later and one floor down, Sherlock was shown into a room identical in design and lay out to the one in which he had spent the last two days, at Molly's bedside. The woman in this room looked a good deal healthier than her victim in the other, but only had a police guard for company. She was sitting up in bed, wearing a hospital gown, her injured arm in a sling. She was a good deal less well groomed than before, having not applied make-up or coiffed her hair for a couple of days, and the family resemblance between her and her late son was considerably more marked.

Sherlock walked into the room, with his hands clasped behind his back and stood at the bottom of the bed, scanning the woman with a critical eye. She watched him, in silence, for a moment or two and then spoke.

'And what do you deduce from me, Mr Sherlock Holmes,' she asked, with disdain.

'Absolutely nothing worth my time or attention,' he replied, blandly. 'You wished to see me, I believe, so here I am. What do you want?'

'I want to know what you did with my boy, after you murdered him,' she squawked, venomously.

Sherlock looked momentarily surprised and then threw back his head and laughed, ironically.

'You think it's funny, do you, killing a woman's only son and then depriving her of the opportunity to give him a decent burial?' she spat.

'Not I, Ms Jamieson. That is your proclivity. You had every intension of shooting my child, an innocent baby, in the back and leaving his mother to die alone in that shipping container, just to punish me, whom you imagine has slighted you,' he declared, dispassionately.

'Slighted? Is that what you call it when you take a man's life?'

Bernadette was becoming quite agitated now.

'You and your sort, like that brother of yours, you think you can murder with impunity. You think the law doesn't apply to you!'

'Madam, I am not the one who has been breaking the law. Abduction, false imprisonment, attempted murder, physical abuse, possession of an illegal fire arm, driving a vehicle with false number plates, theft – these things are all against the law.'

He remained resolutely calm and unperturbed, which seemed to infuriate her still more.

'So, what? Are you claiming you killed my son in self-defence?' she sneered.

'Not at all,' he replied.

'Then how and why did you kill him?' she demanded.

'No, madam, you misunderstand. I did not kill him, not at all. He killed himself,' Sherlock said, bluntly.

'Liar!' she roared and made to leap from the bed towards him but the police officer sitting at the side of the room, sprang up and restrained her, telling her to calm down before she caused herself further damage.

The pulse monitor, attached to her finger, was beeping rapidly as her heart rate accelerated. A nurse came into the room, alarmed by the shout she had heard. She took in the scene of Sherlock, standing at the foot of the bed, looking mildly amused, and the enraged patient under restraint by the police woman, then turned to the officer and said,

'If this man is upsetting the patient, I will have to ask him to leave.'

'No,' screamed the irate woman in the bed, 'he must tell me where my son is. I have to give him a decent Christian burial.'

'Your son had a very decent Christian burial, all paid for by my family,' Sherlock advised her. 'The only thing missing is his name, but that can be amended. I could take you to his grave right now. Unfortunately, his headstone has my name on it.'

The woman was shocked into silence, so Sherlock went on.

'I never went looking for your son. In fact, I didn't even know he existed until he made himself known to me. He seemed to see me as some sort of rival, though goodness knows why as we were not remotely interested in the same things. Your son seemed hell bent on world domination whereas I just enjoyed solving puzzles. Unfortunately, some of the puzzles I solved seemed to be important to him so he decided he had to defeat me, get the better of me - annihilate me, in fact.

He could have just walked away, taken his business elsewhere, set up shop in another town, so to speak, but he was obsessed with me. He decided that the world was not big enough for both of us and he wanted me gone.'

Sherlock paused and Bernadette continued to stare at him, with an expression half way between contempt and outrage.

He continued.

'James Moriarty went to an awful lot of trouble to set me up – got himself arrested for three daring crimes, all committed on the same day…'

'He was acquitted of those crimes,' the woman interjected, indignantly.

'Only because he blackmailed the jury members,' Sherlock retorted. 'He told me so himself. Every fairy story needs a good old fashioned villain, he said, and he was it. He kidnapped and almost killed two children – a bit of a family pastime, it would seem – just to implicate me. And once he thought he had destroyed my reputation, he threatened to kill three of my closest friends, just to force me to kill myself. When it looked as though I wouldn't play ball, he stuck a gun in his mouth and shot himself, blew his brains out, all over the roof of St Bart's hospital – not a pretty sight, I must say.'

Sherlock was revelling in the graphic description of Moriarty's demise, enjoying the look of horror on the mother's face.

'You are a liar,' she hissed.

'You don't have to believe me. The body can be exhumed and a post-mortem carried out. It will confirm everything I've told you – the nature of the injury, the powder burns on his left hand – he was left handed, wasn't he? Like yourself?'

Sherlock looked enquiringly at the woman. She did not respond.

'So,' he concluded, 'now you know how your son died; and why, and where he is. You can have him dug up and taken to a final resting place of your choosing or you can leave him where he is and just get him a new head stone - your choice. Personally, I could not care less.'

With that, he turned, walked out of the room and made his way back to Molly.

ooOoo

When Sherlock arrived back at Molly's room, he was rather put out to find that her mother and sister by her bedside. He saw them, through the window in the door, just as he was about to enter the room. He stopped and considered walking away but, coming to a decision, pushed open the door and walked in.

Both women turned and stared at him, the sister with curiosity and the mother with the pursed lips of the perennially disapproving. Sherlock switched on his most disarming smile and approached the older woman with his hand outstretched. Taken completely by surprise, she reached out automatically and they shook.

'Mrs Hooper, I am delighted to make your acquaintance,' he gushed. 'Please forgive my rude behaviour earlier. It was quite inexcusable. And,' he continued, turning to the younger one, 'you must be Molly's sister,' grasping her hand and squeezing it, warmly, 'I can see that attractive woman run in the Hooper bloodline.'

Even in her weakened state, Molly found it hard to stifle a smile at this incorrigible performance. Having completely bamboozled the two ladies, Sherlock swooped around to the far side of the bed and bent to place an affectionate kiss on Molly's cheek, then sat down on the bedside chair, reached for her hand and beamed at her. She fixed him with a warning glare then turned to her mother and said,

'Mum, this is Sherlock. He's William's father.'

Mrs Hooper, too stunned to say anything, just stared open-mouthed from him to Molly and back again.

'I was just saying to Mum that she could perhaps go and see William, while she's here. She doesn't get to see him very much,' Molly said, pointedly, to Sherlock.

'Oh, you must!' he insisted. 'Mycroft's driver will take you. I'll call Mrs Hudson and tell her to expect you, shall I?'

'Er, yes…thank you…that would be lovely…' Mrs Hooper stammered.

'Fine!' exclaimed the horrendously over-acting detective. 'Shall I do it now?'

'Er…OK, yes…thank you,' the woman stammered again.

Sherlock whipped out his phone, speed dialled Mrs Hudson's number and advised her to expect two visitors within the hour and to provide tea and cake, if she would be so kind. Having completed his task, he rose, swept round to the other side of the bed and ushered the two ladies out, with smiles and further handshakes and helping them on with their coats. The ladies did not stand a chance.

Having closed the door behind them, he turned, leaned on the door and heaved a sigh of relief.

'Sherlock, you are evil,' Molly chided him, even while she struggled not to smile.

He took off his coat, laid it on the chair vacated by Molly's mother and walked round to sit back in his usual spot.

'I needed somewhere to put my coat,' he explained, with a straight face.

'Well, I was just going to ask my sister to help me to the bathroom so now you will have to do it,' she concluded.

The expression on his face was priceless. Enjoying the moment, Molly pressed the call button to summon a nurse.

ooOoo


	22. Life After Death Chapter Twenty Two

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Three – Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter Fifteen**

Once it was confirmed that Molly no longer needed the services of the ICU, Mycroft suggested she be moved to an exclusive private hospital in the centre of London, to receive recuperative care. Molly was compliant with the arrangement, as it meant she was closer to William and it made it easier for Sherlock to bring him to visit her. She had long since given up trying to persuade Mycroft not to go to great expense on her behalf, since cost seemed to be of no importance to him.

Sherlock was happy with the move, too, as it meant that Molly would be no longer in the same building as her abductor whom he suspected, despite being under police guard, might be inclined to try something drastic, should the opportunity present itself. So it was arranged for Molly to transfer, by private ambulance, the following day.

ooOoo

Now that Molly was out of danger, Sherlock did not feel the need to spend every waking hour at her bedside, so it was agreed that he would move in to Molly's flat, temporarily, and take over William's care from Mrs Hudson, enabling her to return home, for a well-earned rest because, although William was by and large a well-behaved, co-operative child, he was still a lively two year old and Mrs Hudson was a lady in her eighth decade.

Molly and Sherlock agreed that it would be best for William to get back into some sort of routine so Sherlock took him to the crèche every day, leaving himself free to spend time at Baker Street, working on cold cases, sourced from the few unsolved crime web sites that had not yet blocked him, because of his solving success rate.

Other than the general feeling of frailty, and the injuries to her wrists and ankles, Molly was making a good recovery from her ordeal. However, on the first night in the private hospital, which Molly thought was more like a luxury spa hotel than any hospital she had ever been in, the emotional trauma showed its face.

Molly awoke, screaming, in the middle of the night, waking half the other patients on her floor and bringing the night nurse racing to her room. She was so distressed that the nurse sent for the on-call doctor, to sedate her. This incident was duly reported to Mycroft, when he rang for an up-date on the patient the next morning. He arrived at the hospital an hour later, to see how Molly was for himself.

When he entered her room, he thought she looked fragile and pale. He gave her his customary peck on each cheek and sat in the bed side chair.

'What happened last night, Molly?' he asked, with concern.

'It was just a nightmare but it felt so real,' Molly explained. 'I was in my flat with William and I turned around and she was there, pointing that gun at me. Then she pulled the trigger and I woke up screaming.'

Molly looked close to tears. Mycroft took her hand, comfortingly.

'Mycroft, I don't know if I can ever go back there,' Molly gasped. 'It's my home and I love it and, what's more important, it's William's home, the only one he has ever known but the thought of walking back in there makes me feel as though… I'm going to die.'

Mycroft considered her words then replied,

'Molly, a house is made by builders but a home is made by love and care. We can find you another flat.'

'Yes, but then she will have won, won't she, that awful woman?' Molly sobbed, tears welling in her eyes.

'Then we need to deal with this,' Mycroft stated. 'Leave it with me, Molly. I'll speak to someone.'

Mycroft stayed a little longer, just to see that Molly had everything she needed and then left to travel the short distance to his Whitehall office. Climbing into the back seat of his car, he was already dialling on his mobile phone.

ooOoo

Sherlock was working on one of those ancient historical mysteries he'd found on the Internet when the doorbell to 221B rang.

'Get that, would you, John,' he called, completely engrossed in the experiment he was conducting. It was only when the bell rang a second time and he took a deep breath to shout up to John's room, that he suddenly remembered that John no longer lived there. He sat up straight, rather taken aback by his memory lapse.

Working with John and Lestrade in the hunt for Molly and William had been so like old times. He had to admit, to himself at least, that part of him had actually enjoyed pitting his wits against Bernadette Jamieson, despite it being a deeply traumatic experience for all concerned. How he wished those days could return. The bell rang a third time and then his iPhone chirped a text alert. He opened the text. It was from D.I. Greg Lestrade.

 _Are you going to answer the bloody door or not? I know you're in there._

Sherlock trotted down the stairs to the front door and let Lestrade in.

'About bloody time, too,' he snorted, as he stood back to let Sherlock pass him in the hall and lead the way up to the flat. Once upstairs and with the kettle switched on, Sherlock turned to his friend and said,

'So what can I do for you?'

'Actually, it's what I can do for you,' Lestrade announced.

'Really?' Sherlock snorted with derision. 'Hmm, there's a first time for everything, I suppose. But Inspector, please don't prolong the agony of anticipation…' he remarked, flippantly.

'We must be coming up for some kind of inspection or an audit, or something and there seems to be a bit of a backlog of unsolved crimes, which the management find a bit inconvenient…'

'Are you asking me to look at these cases?' Sherlock interrupted, slightly irritated by Lestrade's long-winded preamble.

'I have been requested by the Assistant Commissioner to invite you to consult on some of these cases, yes,' the D.I. confirmed.

'What kind of cases?' Sherlock asked, warily.

'All kinds,' replied Lestrade.

'Little old ladies' lost cats?' snorted Sherlock.

'Sherlock, do you want it or not?' Lestrade retorted, irritably.

'I don't want to do any boring stuff,' he replied.

'Look, this is a foot in the door, mate,' Lestrade explained, opening his hands, in a placatory gesture. 'It shows that their attitude towards you is softening. It's a start, isn't it?'

Sherlock was secretly rather pleased by this development but he was not about to admit that too readily. He assumed a pensive attitude as he made two mugs of tea and passed one to the inspector. Then, inviting Lestrade to be seated in John's chair, he sat in his favourite chair, opposite, and continued to feign deep thought.

Lestrade suspected that this was a sham but he appreciated that his friend had his pride and would not wish to appear too eager, so he sipped his tea and waited patiently. At last, Sherlock spoke.

'Where will I be working?' he asked, warily.

'You would have to work at the Yard.'

'Why?'

'We can't allow police files out of the building. If the press were to get wind of it, they would have a field day. Imagine the headlines: 'Confidential police files found in Baker Street bin'. I'd be pounding the beat, before I could draw a breath.'

'Why would I put them in my bin?'

'Just go with me on this one, Sherlock. I cannot let you take files out of the Yard.'

'I could access them on my lap top.'

'Some of them are hard copy only.'

'What about the Black Museum?'

'What?'

'The Black Museum.'

'What about the Black Museum?'

'I asked you that.'

'Are you trying extra hard to piss me off or is that just your default position?'

'I could work in the Black Museum.'

The Black Museum was a museum of criminology, housed within New Scotland Yard. Unlike similar institutions, this one was not open to the public.

'Ah… Right… That's an idea,' mused Lestrade, mulling over the idea. 'That could work.'

He thought about it some more and said,

'Let me get back to you on that.'

'Will these be cold cases?' Sherlock asked.

'No, actually, they are mostly live cases but no one is actually working on them. They are in limbo.'

'Would John be able to work with me?'

'I don't see why not, if he wants to, but he's working at St Mary's isn't he?'

'Will I get paid?'

Sherlock looked at Lestrade, speculatively.

'We've never paid you before.'

'I have responsibilities now, in case you hadn't noticed.'

'I'll check on that, OK?

'Fine,' replied Sherlock, with a satisfied nod.

ooOoo

Later that afternoon, Mycroft arrived back in Molly's hospital room, accompanied by a lady in a smart black suit. He introduced the two women to each other.

'Molly, this is Dr Eve Matthews. I believe she can help you deal with the issues you have with regard to the flat. She is the best in her field.'

Molly looked at the lady, intrigued but also wary.

'I will leave you ladies to become acquainted,' Mycroft said, and took his leave. Dr Matthews took the chair next to Molly's bed.

'Mycroft says you are the best in your field. What field is that?' Molly asked.

'I'm a psychotherapist,' relied the doctor.

'OK,' said Molly, 'so how do we do this?'

'Well, to begin with, I'd like to help you to relax. You seem quite tense. After your recent experiences, I would be surprised if you weren't. This is a normal reaction to an abnormal situation, so you are doing all the right things, so far.'

'Yes, well, that's good to know. I thought I was going mad,' remarked Molly, ironically.

'Let's begin with you telling me about yourself.'

Eve Matthews' voice was very soothing and the questions she asked were not difficult to answer so Molly found herself relaxing a little. After a few minutes of casual conversation, Dr Matthews said she would like to teach Molly some relaxation techniques.

'Will that help me get back to my flat?' Molly asked.

'Indirectly, yes. The more you can control your stress levels, the easier it will be to confront your fears.'

'That sounds logical,' Molly agreed. 'Can I ask you something?'

'Certainly, although I may not be able to give you an answer.'

'How do you know Mycroft?'

'I do some work for him, from time to time.'

'Psychological work?'

'That's quite a broad definition.'

'Do you carry out debriefing?'

The doctor smiled.

'Mycroft said you were intuitive. Yes, that is one of my functions.'

'Did you work on Sherlock's debriefing?'

'That information is classified. But, perhaps, under the circumstances, I can tell you that I am familiar with that particular operation.'

'Well, that's good enough for me.'

'Really? Why so?'

'If you managed to get Sherlock to cooperate you must be a very skilled practitioner so I am willing to trust you.'

'Trust between patient and therapist is very important,' the doctor agreed.

'So, shall we get on with it, then?' Molly prompted.

'Yes, let's,' Eve Matthews agreed, with a smile.

ooOoo

On his way to collect William from the crèche, Sherlock pondered on the phone conversation he had had with Mycroft, concerning Molly's difficulties. His over-whelming sense of responsibility for her situation had returned with a vengeance. How casually he had involved her in his plot to subvert and destroy Moriarty's evil empire. He should have guessed that his actions would have consequences.

He should have considered all the possibilities at the planning stage but, in doing so, he would have been rendered impotent, a victim of over-analysis. Caring was definitely NOT an advantage. He contemplated the reality of having to deliberate much more in the future, with the well-being of his son to consider. How complicated his life had suddenly become.

Having collected William, he hailed a cab to take them to visit Molly.

She had spent the afternoon practicing the relaxation techniques that Dr Matthews had taught her. If she had nightmares that night, she would try using these to calm herself. It would be quite a test of her prowess as a quick learner, she thought. But she put the whole matter from her mind when Sherlock arrived, with William, and spent a pleasant hour cuddling and playing with her child.

Sherlock seemed distant and pensive during the visit. She guessed that Mycroft had spoken to him about her but he would never bring it up in front of William. For her part, she was just glad that William had not known what was happening, in the flat that night. He still thought of it as a place of safety and had no reason to feel at risk there. She was thankful for such small mercies.

When it was time to leave, Sherlock lent over to enable her to kiss his cheek. So, he did notice, after all, she thought.

That night, the nightmares were back but, this time, it was different. Molly was in the bathroom, spelling out the message in magnetic letters and, as she went through into the sitting room, the woman was holding William with the gun against his head. She woke up, hyperventilating, fearing she was suffering a heart attack.

As she opened her eyes and sat up in bed, remembering where she was, she tried employing the technique she had learned that day. Concentrating on her breathing helped control the hyperventilation but the image left in her mind of the woman and the gun made it difficult to go back to sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, it was there. She eventually dozed off at around five a.m., as it was just beginning to get light, and dreamed she was in a dark hole, feeling around in the blackness, looking for a shoe.

Dr Matthews arrived at around ten a.m. and was very impressed with Molly's report that she had calmed herself after the nightmare. It boded well for the future success of the process. Getting immediately down to business, Eve asked Molly to close her eyes and take her on a virtual tour of her flat.

'Where would you like to begin?' the doctor asked.

'At the front door,' Molly replied.

'OK. We are standing at the front door,' confirmed the doctor, and waited for Molly to continue.

'I'm putting the code into the key pad and opening the door,' Molly began. 'We're in the front hall and my flat door is on the left. We're crossing to the door and I'm opening it with my key. We walk into the hallway.'

'How do you feel?'

'I feel a bit nervous but not too bad.'

'OK. Use your breathing technique to ease that and, when you're ready, carry on.'

Molly did as advised then continued the tour.

'We're going into the sitting room.'

She felt her pulse rate rise and the warmth leech from her skin. Her chest tightened and breathing became difficult.

'This was where…she had the gun…in her hand and…William…William…'

'Molly, use your breathing technique. Use the technique,' Eve urged. 'She's not there now. She was there before, but she is locked up now. She can't hurt you or William anymore.'

Molly listened to the voice and, summoning all her will power and self-control, she applied the technique and gradually felt the panic subside until she heaved a great sigh and felt normal again. She opened her eyes and turned toward the therapist. She looked pale and she felt exhausted but she had managed the panic attack.

'That was very good, Molly. Excellent, in fact,' Dr Matthews congratulated her. 'But I think that's enough for today.'

Molly closed her eyes with relief. She did not want to do that again, right now.

'You keep practicing those relaxation techniques and we'll try again tomorrow.'

With the doctor gone, and lying on top of the bed covers in her dressing gown, Molly drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

ooOoo

The next day, it was with mixed feelings that Molly anticipated her session with the doctor. She had not had a nightmare over-night, which was definitely progress, but she knew she needed to get further into the flat than last time. She was also aware that these virtual tours were just a rehearsal for the real thing. She would have to face the flat in reality soon.

She was also a little concerned about Sherlock. He had brought William to see her as usual, the night before, but had been withdrawn and distracted again, like the day before. This filled her with trepidation, for a reason she could not quite define.

Dr Matthews arrived at ten a.m. again and the session began.

In her mind's eye, Molly led the way into the flat once more. As she came into her hallway, through the internal door, she felt the rise in heart rate and the cold sweat spreading over her body. She visualised taking hold of the hand of the doctor, whom she imagined to be walking right beside her, and she took some steadying breaths.

 _I must do this_ , she thought.

'I'm in the sitting room,' she began. 'Here is where the woman sat watching William, with the gun by her side.'

She paused and practiced her breathing.

'I'm walking into the kitchen. Here is where she pointed the gun at my chest.'

'You are doing very well, Molly. Remember, she's not there now. She can't hurt you,' the therapist reassured her.

Molly felt the panic rising but did not allow it to over-come her.

'Now I'm going into William's bedroom. Here is where I packed William's hold-all.'

She saw herself, in her head, packing as though for a normal sleep-over but in a blind panic. She paused and practised the technique until she felt the panic subside to a manageable level, then went on again.

'I am going into William's bathroom. Here I arranged the letters to tell Sherlock who I thought she was and that she had a gun'.

'You can stop, now,' the doctor advised, in a soothing voice, and Molly sat back against the pillows, in the hospital room, once more. She realised cheeks were wet with tears, yet she had not even known she was crying. Dr Matthews handed her a tissue and gave her a moment or two to compose herself.

'You are doing extremely well, Molly. I think you covered all the stress points that time.'

'I tried to,' Molly replied. 'I have to do this, so I can go home and be with my son again. I just wish I didn't cry so much.'

'Crying is good,' Eve insisted. 'It's a release valve. And, trust me, after what you've been through, you really need to cry.'

'Did Sherlock cry?'

The question was out before Molly even realised. The doctor considered whether or not to give an answer, then said,

'Sherlock did a lot of things and crying was one of them.'

This time, after the therapist left, Molly took a long, hot shower and visualised washing that mad woman's presence out of her life. That's what she needed to do, to clean that woman out of her house. She would speak to Sherlock, when he came today, about getting some professionals in to do a thorough deep clean, like they did at the hospital, after a Norovirus epidemic, last winter. She hoped this wasn't just another compulsive response. She did not want to become an obsessive cleaner. However, she concluded that this was unlikely.

After her shower, Molly lay on the bed, wondering how Sherlock's debrief experience had differed from her own. She called it her 'debriefing' because it made her feel more proactive and less like a victim. That was the worst part of the ordeal - the feeling of helplessness, of being completely in the power of someone else. She needed to get her self-determination back.

ooOoo

It being Saturday, Sherlock and William spent the day at Regents Park Zoo, mostly in the B.U.G.S. exhibit, looking primarily at the invertebrates, which were William's particular favourites. They saw cave crickets, cockroaches, leaf cutter ants and a swarm of locusts, as well as giant Orb spiders, Honey bees in a hive, mole rats, golden frogs and a tank full of moon jellyfish.

William was absolutely fascinated by all the animals and spent nearly half an hour watching the ants go about their business, and an equal amount of time enthralled by the hypnotic pulsing of the moon jelly fish. When it was home time, he was only persuaded to leave by the reminder that he was going to see Mummy.

Father and son took the bus, William's preferred mode of transport, from just outside the zoo to a stop near the clinic. On the bus, they sat upstairs at the front, and William pointed at all the land marks that caught his eye, asking,

'What dat?' and listening intently to Sherlock's explanations.

Carried the short distance from the bus stop, and rocked by the movement of Sherlock's long-striding gait, William was lulled to sleep, his head resting on his father's shoulder. When they arrived in Molly's room, Sherlock found her sitting in the arm chair, looking much better than she had on either of his two previous visits. He assumed that the sessions with his own nemesis, Eve Matthews, were going well. This thought brought back some uncomfortable memories, so he quashed it.

As Sherlock passed him to Molly, William roused but only long enough to say, 'Mummy', and then he was asleep again.

'You've worn him out,' she remarked.

'The zoo wore him out. He really loves creepy-crawlies. I think he would stay all night if they would let him.'

Molly was pleased that Sherlock was more communicative today. They talked about her recuperation and she asked him about getting the flat deep cleaned. He said he would see to it, first thing Monday morning. Then there was a lull in the conversation. In thoughtful repose, Sherlock looked troubled.

'Is everything OK with you?' Molly asked.

He looked instantly guilty and she wished she had not asked but he recovered quickly and shrugged.

'I just have a lot on my mind at the moment. Lestrade says he might have some work for me. I'm just waiting to see what he comes up with.'

Molly knew this was a lie. The prospect of work would make him relaxed and happy, not withdrawn and pensive. But she didn't pursue it. If he didn't want to talk about it, that was his prerogative, but it did worry her that he felt the need to lie. It was a foreign concept to him. He was known for his brutal honesty. She had to switch off this train of thought because it was too distressing.

'Greg hasn't sent anyone to take my statement yet,' she remarked, clutching at the diversion.

'He said it could wait until you're fully recovered,' Sherlock replied.

'No, I'd rather do it now,' she declared. 'I want to get it over with before I leave here.'

'You'll still have to give evidence at the trial,' he reminded her.

'Yes, but that's months away. I want to get this part sorted as soon as possible,' Molly insisted.

Sherlock promised to relay this request to Lestrade. The rest of the visit passed with casual conversation until it was time to leave and Sherlock took the still-sleeping William home for supper, bath and bed.

ooOoo

Sunday lunchtime, Sherlock and William met John and Mary for a pub lunch on the river. It was a family-friendly place with a nice beer garden which had a couple of swings and a climbing frame to entertain the children. They ordered their meals and, while they waited for them to be served, Mary took William to play on the climbing frame, which was designed to look like a fort, with ladders, a rope bridge and a slide. Sherlock sat watching them, with frown lines around his eyes. John sat watching him and, eventually, asked,

'What's the problem, mate?'

Sherlock switched his attention to John and thought for a moment before speaking.

'How do you do it, John?

'Do what?' John replied, looking puzzled.

'Domesticity.'

John raised his eyebrows.

'You make it look so easy,' Sherlock muttered, running his hand through his hair, which was almost as long now as it had been before he went away.

'That's because, for me, it is. I knew as soon as I met Mary that she was the right one for me. We just clicked.'

'Oh, right,' Sherlock nodded, slightly mockingly, 'the magic click. Love at first sight, was it?'

'No, not love. Lust, definitely, but not love. That came later. But we just got on well together, laughed at the same things, liked the same music – well, mostly, you know.'

'No, I don't know. I really don't,' Sherlock replied.

After a short silence, while John looked at his friend with genuine sympathy and regret, Sherlock seemed to give himself a mental shake then said,

'Lestrade's been in touch. He wants us to work for him. Or rather, he wants me to work for him and I want you to work with me.'

John looked interested.

'We're still sorting out the details but are you up for it?'

'Fuck, yes!' John replied, with a small whoop of sheer delight, then, reining in his enthusiasm for a moment, said,

'Well, it would have to fit in round my shifts at the hospital, of course, but, my God, am I up for it!'

Sherlock smiled, broadly – a rare occurrence but one that lit up his whole face and made his eyes sparkle.

'God, I've missed this,' he said. 'I can't begin to say how much!'

ooOoo


	23. Life After Death Chapter Twenty Three

**Life After Death - A Post-Reichenbach Trilogy**

 **Part Three – Unfinished Business**

 **Chapter Sixteen**

Molly's next session with Eve was a land mark moment. She had spent the weekend repeating the virtual tour of her flat until she could get round without any panic attacks at all. On the Monday morning, when the doctor arrived, Molly could not wait to get started. She took the doctor round her 'virtual' flat and stopped at every stress point, lingering and describing in detail the woman's appearance and her behaviour, even to the point where they left the flat and exited the building. Molly opened her eyes and looked at the doctor with a triumphant grin.

'I think I'm ready to do it for real,' she exclaimed.

'Yes, I would have to agree with you there,' Eve replied. 'We should arrange it as soon as possible, perhaps even tomorrow. But, Molly, I must warn you, without wanting to be a damp squib, it will be much harder doing it for real. You have embraced this stage of the process brilliantly. Just don't expect the next stage to be a formality. It will be tough.'

Molly nodded. She understood what the doctor was saying.

'Don't worry, I won't get too cocky. I know what I'm in for.'

ooOoo

That afternoon, Sgt Donovan was despatched to take Molly's statement. A few days earlier, this would have been a traumatic experience for Molly but today it felt like catharsis. It was part of the process of washing the Jamieson woman out of hers and her William's life.

That night, the nightmares returned but she was able to calm herself and get back to sleep relatively quickly and, next morning, Molly was dressed and waiting when Dr Matthews arrived to take her to the flat. They sat outside the building, in the car, for several minutes, whilst Eve Matthews took Molly through her relaxation techniques, before getting out and approaching the front door.

'OK, Molly, I'm right here with you. Just walk me through it, like you did in your head,' the doctor reminded her, 'and remember, you can stop any time or take a break whenever you need to.'

Molly nodded, took a deep breath and keyed in the code to enter the house.

'This is my home,' she told herself, defiantly. 'I can't let that woman win this battle.'

This was the first time Molly had been home since being kidnapped at gun point. She took the few steps across the inner hall to the archway into the sitting room. Looking around, she could see signs of other people's habitation. Mrs Hudson had been there, with William, for four days and nights and Sherlock and William had been here for almost a week, so she expected it to seem different.

Sherlock may have been a brilliant detective but his housekeeping skills did leave something to be desired, she noted. There were small and subtle changes, but this was her home and she knew it intimately, so even small changes shouted out to her. But the over-riding difference was the malignant aura left behind by Bernadette Jamieson.

'Do you want to sit down?' asked the doctor, concerned at the loss of colour in Molly's cheeks.

'No. I need to do this. I need to do the whole routine,' she insisted.

'You can take breaks, remember,' Eve reminded her but Molly pressed on.

As she walked through the flat, holding tight to the doctor's hand, everything she looked at brought back powerful memories of that awful evening that had begun so innocently. She employed the breathing techniques, just as she had rehearsed in the virtual tours and began to move through the flat.

 _Here was where she sat, looking at William, with the gun held at her side, here was where she stood, pointing the gun at my heart, here was where I packed William's bag, while she was in the sitting room, with my son and a gun, here is where I wrote the clue for Sherlock, here is where she took William's hand and made me walk first, out of the flat._

'Molly, it's Ok. You are safe. She can't hurt you.'

Molly heard Eve's voice and opened her eyes. She was in the arm chair, in her sitting room, holding tight to the doctor's hand, shaking uncontrollably, with the all too familiar sensation of tears, trickling down her cheeks and dripping into her lap.

'Would you like a glass of water?' Eve asked. Molly nodded, gratefully.

When the doctor returned with the water, Molly was much calmer. Eve sat on the sofa and waited for her to sip the water, then spoke,

'That was quite amazing, Molly. You have done so incredibly well. I really did not expect you to do the whole thing like that, without a break. You were on a mission,' she smiled, full of admiration.

'I couldn't let her win,' declared Molly. 'This is my son's home and she is not going to chase us out of here. I didn't think I would ever set foot in here again, but here I am. And she is locked up, where she belongs. I hope she rots in Hell, her and her psycho son. Fuck them!'

Eve burst out laughing and Molly joined in, too, despite the tears.

'My mother would kill me if she heard me say that word!' she gasped, putting her hand up to her mouth, in embarrassment. 'I NEVER say that word!'

'Well, in my book, swearing is like crying. It's a safety valve. Save it up and use it when it really counts,' the doctor advised. 'How about a cup of tea?'

Molly and Eve spent another hour, in the flat, talking in detail about the abduction, and Eve was able to explain how the perpetrator had used psychological tricks to subvert Molly's natural instincts.

'She was very clever, Molly. Any normal person would have been taken in by her. Don't think yourself stupid or gullible. She knew what she was doing.'

'She may have thought she knew what she was doing but she had no idea what she was going up against when she picked on Sherlock,' Molly exclaimed. 'How soon can I move back in?'

'As soon as the hospital discharges you but I would recommend you have someone with you for a day or two, someone to help out around the home, until you feel completely recovered.'

ooOoo

Mycroft wanted to hire a private nurse for Molly but Mrs Hudson insisted on moving in as a temporary home help, which was Molly's preferred option, so Mycroft capitulated. Two days after Molly's visit home, her consultant advised that she was well enough to be discharged. A car was dispatched to collect Mrs Hudson and her suitcase then pick up Molly and transport them both to Molly's flat.

After being in a hospital environment for almost two weeks, it felt good to be out in the fresh air and to be walking around, even just from the car to the house. The driver brought in the luggage and took his leave. Sherlock had taken William to the crèche that morning, so Molly had some time in the flat to relax before William came home.

Sherlock had done as she asked and had the flat 'valeted', the day before, so it was clean and fresh-smelling, neat and tidy. He had, considerately, packed his things into his valise and stripped the bed in the guest room, that morning, so Mrs Hudson only had to remake the bed and unpacked her things then she went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

Molly was lying on the sofa, with her feet up, when she heard Sherlock's key in the door. She stood up and ran into the hall, just as William come through the door. She stood still, smiling, whilst he registered her presence, processed the information and then rushed at her, shouting 'Mummy!' She picked him up and hugged him, so happy to have him back in her arms, back in their own home. She carried him into the sitting room and sat on the sofa, handing him the TV remote, to choose which programme to watch. Needless to say, he chose a nature show.

Mrs Hudson busied herself in the kitchen, preparing supper and Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, looking thoughtful, so she pushed a colander of raw vegetables towards him and said,

'Here, make yourself useful and peel and chop those. You do know how to peel and chop, don't you?'

'As a matter of fact, I do,' he replied, indignantly, taking up the vegetable knife and selecting a chopping board. 'We had a very good cook and she taught both me and Mycroft to cook, before we went up to Cambridge. We'd both been away at school so she knew we had never had to cook a meal in our lives and she didn't want us starving to death or living on takeaways. She taught us to make 'Winter Comfort Food', as she called it – beef stew, shepherds' pie, spaghetti bolognaise, chicken chasseurs – you'd be surprised,' he remarked.

'I'm constantly surprised by you, dear,' she said and reached out to ruffle his hair.

After supper, Sherlock took William off for his bath, brought him in to say 'good night' to the ladies, then put him to bed, whilst Mrs Hudson watched TV and Molly dozed on the sofa. When he came back into the room, Mrs H excused herself,

'I'm going to my room, to read a book and have an early night,' she said. 'It's been a busy day.'

'Put my bag in the corridor,' Sherlock requested. 'I'll collect it shortly, when I leave for home.'

ooOoo

When Molly awoke, an hour or so later, Sherlock was still there, sitting in the arm chair, watching her.

'We have to stop meeting like this,' he said, with a sardonic smile.

Molly smiled back and rubbed her eyes.

'Did I miss something?' she asked. 'Where is everyone?'

'Mrs Hudson went to bed. I think we've worn her out,' he smiled. 'Can I get you anything?'

'A cup of tea would be nice,' she replied, yawning and stretching.

He got up and went to the kitchen. Whilst he was making the tea, Molly took herself off to her en suite shower room. Looking into the mirror above the basin, she groaned at the state of her face. Oh, god, she thought, I look frightful. She wondered how those damsels in distress in films always looked so glamorous, even on their death beds. Of course, she knew the answer – a makeup department and a soft filter on the camera lens. Opening her toiletries bag, she set about trying to repair some of the damage. Then she brushed through her hair and returned to the sitting room.

Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, pouring the tea, so she sat in the arm chair and accepted a cup and saucer from him. They both sat, sipping their tea and thinking their own thoughts, Molly trying to come up with a way of broaching the subject of what was really bothering him and why he had lied about it. In the end, having come up with nothing better, she decided the blunt approach would have to do.

'Sherlock, why did you lie to me the other day?'

He looked as though she had just given him an electric shock.

'And, please, don't bother trying to deny it because we both know you are a terrible liar,' she added.

He was trapped.

She could see by his rapid eye movements that he was trying to think of a way out but nothing was coming to mind. In the end, he sighed and sank into himself, defeated. He reached forward and put his cup and saucer on the coffee table, propped his elbow on the arm of the sofa and rested his head on his hand. Taking a deep breath, he spoke, at last.

'Molly, what do you want from me?' he asked, anguish evident in his tone.

'I told you at the airport, Sherlock. I make no demands and I have no expectations but I would like you to be part of William's life,' she answered, as the old fingers of dread began to squeeze her heart.

 _This was always likely to happen_ , she thought. _The stark reality of the situation has finally reached crunch point. Well, I've managed without him for three years…but how will I explain this to William?_

'The last time I was here, we talked about why you put up with me before, when I was treating you so badly,' Sherlock went on, breaking into her train of thought. 'And you said it was because you loved me. And you said that you still loved me but that you knew I couldn't love you back.'

He looked to her for confirmation.

'Yes, that was about it,' she confirmed, feeling hollow.

'You said you loved me for who I was, so why would you want me to be different, that it was irrational to expect me to change.'

Another pause.

'Yes, that is what I said.'

Molly waited for him to find the words he was looking for, the words that would break her child's heart.

'But what if I wanted to change?'

He was looking at her again but, this time, not for confirmation but for assistance. He was struggling to put his thoughts and feelings into words.

'What if I wanted more out of our relationship than just sharing William?'

'What did you have in mind?' she asked, completely out-flanked by this sudden and surprising change of direction.

'Well, that's just it, I don't know,' he groaned. 'You must know that this is virgin territory for me. I watch other people being _together_ \- like John and Mary - and it all seems so simple but, for me, it is not simple. I have never been 'in a relationship', ever.'

He gazed at her, lamely, and shrugged his shoulders.

'I've had sex, of course, and not just with you, although maybe I shouldn't be telling you that – or maybe I should, I don't know! Oh, my God, why does it have to be so complicated?'

He punched the arm of the sofa with his fist, in sheer anguish.

Molly got up from the arm chair and sat next to him on the sofa, took his hand and plaited her fingers into his. He looked at her hand, holding his, but did not pull away.

'It does not have to be complicated,' Molly soothed. 'It doesn't have to be anything you don't want it to be. We are already friends, good friends, who trust each other. We don't have to do anything too different. We could maybe start as 'friends with privileges'?'

She waited for him to react.

'Does that mean what I think it does?' he asked, cautiously.

'Yes, I expect so.'

'Because there is no way we could live together,' he gabbled. 'I'm sorry but I do need my own space, especially if I'm working. With all my experiments, it would be too dangerous for William, being around all that...'

'No, you're quite right,' Molly assured him, trying so hard to keep a straight face. 'I like my own space, too, and William is fine with us living in separate houses. He doesn't know any different.'

There followed an even longer pause, whilst Sherlock considered the full implications of what 'friends with privileges' might entail.

'So, should we give it a try?' Molly asked.

After an even longer pause, he gave a small nod.

'So would you like to stay tonight?' she asked and then added, 'And I'm not suggesting you bunk in with Mrs Hudson. I mean, I know you two are close but that would be weird.'

He turned his head, sharply, to look at her and, at last, he smiled.

'OK,' he said.

She smiled back.

'Good. Let's go to bed.'

ooOoo


End file.
